CELLINI'S STORY.
The following morning at the appointed hour, I went to Cellini's
studio, and was received by him with a sort of gentle courtesy and
kindliness that became him very well. I was already beginning to
experience an increasing languor and weariness, the sure forerunner of
what the artist had prophesied--namely, a return of all my old
sufferings. Amy, tired out by the dancing of the previous night, was
still in bed, as were many of those who had enjoyed Madame Didier's
fete; and the hotel was unusually quiet, almost seeming as though half
the visitors had departed during the night. It was a lovely morning,
sunny and calm; and Cellini, observing that I looked listless and
fatigued, placed a comfortable easy-chair for me near the window, from
whence I could see one of the prettiest parterres of the garden, gay
with flowers of every colour and perfume. He himself remained standing,
one hand resting lightly on his writing-table, which was strewn with a
confusion of letters and newspapers.
"Where is Leo?" I asked, as I glanced round the room in search of that
noble animal.
"Leo left for Paris last night," replied Cellini; "he carried an
important despatch for me, which I feared to trust to the post-office."
"Is it safer in Leo's charge?" I inquired, smiling, for the sagacity of
the dog amused as well as interested me.
"Much safer! Leo carries on his collar a small tin case, just large
enough to contain several folded sheets of paper. When he knows he has
that box to guard during his journeys, he is simply unapproachable. He
would fight any one who attempted to touch it with the ferocity of a
hungry tiger, and there is no edible dainty yet invented that could
tempt his appetite or coax him into any momentary oblivion of his duty.
There is no more trustworthy or faithful messenger."
"I suppose you have sent him to your friend--his master," I said.
"Yes. He has gone straight home to--Heliobas."
This name now awakened in me no surprise or even curiosity. It simply
sounded homelike and familiar. I gazed abstractedly out of the window
at the brilliant blossoms in the garden, that nodded their heads at me
like so many little elves with coloured caps on, but I said nothing. I
felt that Cellini watched me keenly and closely. Presently he continued:
"Shall I tell you everything now, mademoiselle?"
I turned towards him eagerly.
"If you please," I answered.
"May I ask you one question?"
"Certainly."
"How and where did you hear the name of Heliobas?"
I looked up hesitatingly.
"In a dream, signor, strange to say; or rather in three dreams. I will
relate them to you."
And I described the visions I had seen, being careful to omit no
detail, for, indeed, I remembered everything with curious distinctness.
The artist listened with grave and fixed attention. When I had
concluded he said:
"The elixir I gave you acted more potently than even I imagined it
would. You are more sensitive than I thought. Do not fatigue yourself
any more, mademoiselle, by talking. With your permission I will sit
down here opposite to you and tell you my story. Afterwards you must
decide for yourself whether you will adopt the method of treatment to
which I owe my life, and something more than my life--my reason."
He turned his own library-chair towards me, and seated himself. A few
moments passed in silence; his expression was very earnest and
absorbed, and he regarded my face with a sympathetic interest which
touched me profoundly. Though I felt myself becoming more and more
enervated and apathetic as the time went on, and though I knew I was
gradually sinking down again into my old Slough of Despond, yet I felt
instinctively that I was somehow actively concerned in what was about
to be said, therefore I forced myself to attend closely to every word
uttered. Cellini began to speak in low and quiet tones as follows:
"You must be aware, mademoiselle, that those who adopt any art as a
means of livelihood begin the world heavily handicapped--weighted down,
as it were, in the race for fortune. The following of art is a very
different thing to the following of trade or mercantile business. In
buying or selling, in undertaking the work of import or export, a good
head for figures, and an average quantity of shrewd common sense, are
all that is necessary in order to win a fair share of success. But in
the finer occupations, whose results are found in sculpture, painting,
music and poetry, demands are made upon the imagination, the emotions,
the entire spiritual susceptibility of man. The most delicate fibres of
the brain are taxed; the subtle inner workings of thought are brought
into active play; and the temperament becomes daily and hourly more
finely strung, more sensitive, more keenly alive to every passing
sensation. Of course there are many so-called 'ARTISTS' who are mere
shams of the real thing; persons who, having a little surface-education
in one or the other branch of the arts, play idly with the paint-brush,
or dabble carelessly in the deep waters of literature,--or borrow a few
crotchets and quavers from other composers, and putting them together
in haste, call it ORIGINAL COMPOSITION. Among these are to be found the
self-called 'professors' of painting; the sculptors who allow the work
of their 'ghosts' to be admired as their own; the magazine-scribblers;
the 'smart' young leader-writers and critics; the half-hearted
performers on piano or violin who object to any innovation, and prefer
to grind on in the unemotional, coldly correct manner which they are
pleased to term the 'classical'--such persons exist, and will exist, so
long as good and evil are leading forces of life. They are the aphides
on the rose of art. But the men and women I speak of as ARTISTS are
those who work day and night to attain even a small degree of
perfection, and who are never satisfied with their own best efforts. I
was one of these some years ago, and I humbly assert myself still to be
of the same disposition; only the difference between myself then and
myself now is, that THEN I struggled blindly and despairingly, and NOW
I labour patiently and with calmness, knowing positively that I shall
obtain what I seek at the duly appointed hour. I was educated as a
painter, mademoiselle, by my father, a good, simple-hearted man, whose
little landscapes looked like bits cut out of the actual field and
woodland, so fresh and pure were they. But I was not content to follow
in the plain path he first taught me to tread. Merely correct drawing,
merely correct colouring, were not sufficient for my ambition. I had
dazzled my eyes with the loveliness of Correggio's 'Madonna,' and had
marvelled at the wondrous blue of her robe--a blue so deep and intense
that I used to think one might scrape away the paint till a hole was
bored in the canvas and yet not reach the end of that fathomless azure
tint; I had studied the warm hues of Titian; I had felt ready to float
away in the air with the marvellous 'Angel of the Annunciation'--and
with all these thoughts in me, how could I content myself with the
ordinary aspiration of modern artists? I grew absorbed in one
subject--Colour. I noted how lifeless and pale the colouring of to-day
appeared beside that of the old masters, and I meditated deeply on the
problem thus presented to me. What was the secret of Correggio--of Fra
Angelico--of Raphael? I tried various experiments; I bought the most
expensive and highly guaranteed pigments. In vain, for they were all
adulterated by the dealers! Then I obtained colours in the rough, and
ground and mixed them myself; still, though a little better result was
obtained, I found trade adulteration still at work with the oils, the
varnishes, the mediums--in fact, with everything that painters use to
gain effect in their works. I could nowhere escape from vicious
dealers, who, to gain a miserable percentage on every article sold, are
content to be among the most dishonest men in this dishonest age.
"I assure you, mademoiselle, that not one of the pictures which are now
being painted for the salons of Paris and London can possibly last a
hundred years. I recently visited that Palace of Art, the South
Kensington Museum, in London, and saw there a large fresco by Sir
Frederick Leighton. It had just been completed, I was informed. It was
already fading! Within a few years it will be a blur of indistinct
outlines. I compared its condition with the cartoons of Raphael, and a
superb Giorgione in the same building; these were as warm and bright as
though recently painted. It is not Leighton's fault that his works are
doomed to perish as completely off the canvas as though he had never
traced them; it is his dire misfortune, and that of every other
nineteenth-century painter, thanks to the magnificent institution of
free trade, which has resulted in a vulgar competition of all countries
and all classes to see which can most quickly jostle the other out of
existence. But I am wearying you, mademoiselle--pardon me! To resume my
own story. As I told you, I could think of nothing but the one subject
of Colour; it haunted me incessantly. I saw in my dreams visions, of
exquisite forms and faces that I longed to transfer to my canvas, but I
could never succeed in the attempt. My hand seemed to have lost all
skill. About this time my father died, and I, having no other relation
in the world, and no ties of home to cling to, lived in utter solitude,
and tortured my brain more and more with the one question that baffled
and perplexed me. I became moody and irritable; I avoided intercourse
with everyone, and at last sleep forsook my eyes. Then came a terrible
season of feverish trouble, nervous dejection and despair. At times I
would sit silently brooding; at others I started up and walked rapidly
for hours, in the hope to calm the wild unrest that took possession of
my brain. I was then living in Rome, in the studio that had been my
father's. One evening--how well I remember it!--I was attacked by one
of those fierce impulses that forbade me to rest or think or sleep,
and, as usual, I hurried out for one of those long aimless excursions I
had latterly grown accustomed to. At the open street-door stood the
proprietress of the house, a stout, good-natured contadina, with her
youngest child Pippa holding to her skirt. As she saw me approaching,
she started back with an exclamation of alarm, and catching the little
girl up in her arms, she made the sign of the cross rapidly. Astonished
at this, I paused in my hasty walk, and said with as much calmness as I
could muster:
"'What do you mean by that? Have I the evil-eye, think you?'
"Curly-haired Pippa stretched out her arms to me--I had often caressed
the little one, and given her sweetmeats and toys--but her mother held
her back with a sort of smothered scream, and muttered:
"'Holy Virgin! Pippa must not touch him; he is mad.'
"Mad? I looked at the woman and child in scornful amazement. Then
without further words I turned, and went swiftly away down the street
out of their sight. Mad! Was I indeed losing my reason? Was this the
terrific meaning of my sleepless nights, my troubled thoughts, my
strange inquietude? Fiercely I strode along, heedless whither I was
going, till I found myself suddenly on the borders of the desolate
Campagna. A young moon gleamed aloft, looking like a slender sickle
thrust into the heavens to reap an over-abundant harvest of stars. I
paused irresolutely. There was a deep silence everywhere. I felt faint
and giddy: curious flashes of light danced past my eyes, and my limbs
shook like those of a palsied old man. I sank upon a stone to rest, to
try and arrange my scattered ideas into some sort of connection and
order. Mad! I clasped my aching head between my hands, and brooded on
the fearful prospect looming before me, and in the words of poor King
Lear, I prayed in my heart:
"'O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens!'
"PRAYER! There was another thought. How could _I_ pray? For I was a
sceptic. My father had educated me with broadly materialistic views; he
himself was a follower of Voltaire, and with his finite rod he took the
measure of Divinity, greatly to his own satisfaction. He was a good
man, too, and he died with exemplary calmness in the absolute certainty
of there being nothing in his composition but dust, to which he was as
bound to return. He had not a shred of belief in anything but what he
called the Universal Law of Necessity; perhaps this was why all his
pictures lacked inspiration. I accepted his theories without thinking
much about them, and I had managed to live respectably without any
religious belief. But NOW--now with the horrible phantom of madness
rising before me--my firm nerves quailed. I tried, I longed to PRAY.
Yet to whom? To what? To the Universal Law of Necessity? In that there
could be no hearing or answering of human petitions. I meditated on
this with a kind of sombre ferocity. Who portioned out this Law of
Necessity? What brutal Code compels us to be born, to live, to suffer,
and to die without recompense or reason? Why should this Universe be an
ever-circling Wheel of Torture? Then a fresh impetus came to me. I rose
from my recumbent posture and stood erect; I trembled no more. A
curious sensation of defiant amusement possessed me so violently that I
laughed aloud. Such a laugh, too! I recoiled from the sound, as from a
blow, with a shudder. It was the laugh of--a madman! I thought no more;
I was resolved. I would fulfil the grim Law of Necessity to its letter.
If Necessity caused my birth, it also demanded my death. Necessity
could not force me to live against my will. Better eternal nothingness
than madness. Slowly and deliberately I took from my vest a Milanese
dagger of thin sharp steel--one that I always carried with me as a
means of self-defence--I drew it from its sheath, and looked at the
fine edge glittering coldly in the pallid moon-rays. I kissed it
joyously; it was my final remedy! I poised it aloft with firm
fingers--another instant and it would have been buried deep in my
heart, when I felt a powerful grasp on my wrist, and a strong arm
struggling with mine forced the dagger from my hand. Savagely angry at
being thus foiled in my desperate intent, I staggered back a few paces
and sullenly stared at my rescuer. He was a tall man, clad in a dark
overcoat bordered with fur; he looked like a wealthy Englishman or
American travelling for pleasure. His features were fine and
commanding; his eyes gleamed with a gentle disdain as he coolly met my
resentful gaze. When he spoke his voice was rich and mellifluous,
though his accents had a touch in them of grave scorn.
"'So you are tired of your life, young man! All the more reason have
you to live. Anyone can die. A murderer has moral force enough to jeer
at his hangman. It is very easy to draw the last breath. It can be
accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior. One pang of far less
anguish than the toothache, and all is over. There is nothing heroic
about it, I assure you! It is as common as going to bed; it is almost
prosy. LIFE is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of
business. And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the
prompter gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful.
Act the part out, no matter how bad the play. What say you?'
"And, balancing the dagger lightly on one finger, as though it were a
paper-knife, he smiled at me with so much frank kindliness that it was
impossible to resist him. I advanced and held out my hand.
"'Whoever you are,' I said, 'you speak like a true man. But you are
ignorant of the causes which compelled me to---' and a hard sob choked
my utterance. My new acquaintance pressed my proffered hand cordially,
but the gravity of his tone did not vary as he replied:
"'There is no cause, my friend, which compels us to take violent leave
of existence, unless it be madness or cowardice.'
"'Aye, and what if it were madness?' I asked him eagerly. He scanned me
attentively, and laying his fingers lightly on my wrist, felt my pulse.
"'Pooh, my dear sir!' he said; 'you are no more mad than I am. You are
a little overwrought and excited--that I admit. You have some mental
worry that consumes you. You shall tell me all about it. I have no
doubt I can cure you in a few days.'
"Cure me? I looked at him in wonderment and doubt.
"'Are you a physician?' I asked.
"He laughed. 'Not I! I should be sorry to belong to the profession. Yet
I administer medicines and give advice in certain cases. I am simply a
remedial agent--not a doctor. But why do we stand here in this bleak
place, which must be peopled by the ghosts of olden heroes? Come with
me, will you? I am going to the Hotel Costanza, and we can talk there.
As for this pretty toy, permit me to return it to you. You will not
force it again to the unpleasant task of despatching its owner.'
"And he handed the dagger back to me with a slight bow. I sheathed it
at once, feeling somewhat like a chidden child, as I met the slightly
satirical gleam of the clear blue eyes that watched me.
"'Will you give me your name, signor?' I asked, as we turned from the
Campagna towards the city.
"'With pleasure. I am called Heliobas. A strange name? Oh, not at all!
It is pure Chaldee. My mother--as lovely an Eastern houri as Murillo's
Madonna, and as devout as Santa Teresa--gave me the Christian saint's
name of Casimir also, but Heliobas pur et simple suits me best, and by
it I am generally known.'
"'You are a Chaldean?' I inquired.
"'Exactly so. I am descended directly from one of those "wise men of
the East" (and, by the way, there were more than three, and they were
not all kings), who, being wide awake, happened to notice the
birth-star of Christ on the horizon before the rest of the world's
inhabitants had so much as rubbed their sleepy eyes. The Chaldeans have
been always quick of observation from time immemorial. But in return
for my name, you will favour me with yours?'
"I gave it readily, and we walked on together. I felt wonderfully
calmed and cheered--as soothed, mademoiselle, as I have noticed you
yourself have felt when in MY company."
Here Cellini paused, and looked at me as though expecting a question;
but I preferred to remain silent till I had heard all he had to say. He
therefore resumed:
"We reached the Hotel Costanza, where Heliobas was evidently well
known. The waiters addressed him as Monsieur le Comte; but he gave me
no information as to this title. He had a superb suite of rooms in the
hotel, furnished with every modern luxury; and as soon as we entered a
light supper was served. He invited me to partake, and within the space
of half an hour I had told him all my history--my ambition--my
strivings after the perfection of colour--my disappointment, dejection,
and despair--and, finally, the fearful dread of coming madness that had
driven me to attempt my own life. He listened patiently and with
unbroken attention. When I had finished, he laid one hand on my
shoulder, and said gently:
"'Young man, pardon me if I say that up to the present your career has
been an inactive, useless, selfish "kicking against the pricks," as St.
Paul says. You set before yourself a task of noble effort, namely, to
discover the secret of colouring as known to the old masters; and
because you meet with the petty difficulty of modern trade adulteration
in your materials, you think that there is no chance--that all is lost.
Fie! Do you think Nature is overcome by a few dishonest traders? She
can still give you in abundance the unspoilt colours she gave to
Raphael and Titian; but not in haste--not if you vulgarly scramble for
her gifts in a mood that is impatient of obstacle and delay. "Ohne
hast, ohne rast," is the motto of the stars. Learn it well. You have
injured your bodily health by useless fretfulness and peevish
discontent, and with that we have first to deal. In a week's time, I
will make a sound, sane man of you; and then I will teach you how to
get the colours you seek--yes!' he added, smiling, 'even to the
compassing of Correggio's blue.'
"I could not speak for joy and gratitude; I grasped my friend and
preserver by the hand. We stood thus together for a brief interval,
when suddenly Heliobas drew himself up to the full stateliness of his
height and bent his calm eyes deliberately upon me. A strange thrill
ran through me; I still held his hand.
"'Rest!' he said in slow and emphatic tones, 'Weary and overwrought
frame, take thy full and needful measure of repose! Struggling and
deeply injured spirit, be free of thy narrow prison! By that Force
which I acknowledge within me and thee and in all created things, I
command thee, REST!'
"Fascinated, awed, overcome by his manner, I gazed at him and would
have spoken, but my tongue refused its office--my senses swam--my eyes
closed--my limbs gave way--I fell senseless."
Cellini again paused and looked at me. Intent on his words, I would not
interrupt him. He went on:
"When I say senseless, mademoiselle, I allude of course to my body. But
I, myself--that is, my soul--was conscious; I lived, I moved, I heard,
I saw. Of that experience I am forbidden to speak. When I returned to
mortal existence I found myself lying on a couch in the same room where
I had supped with Heliobas, and Heliobas himself sat near me reading.
It was broad noonday. A delicious sense of tranquillity and youthful
buoyancy was upon me, and without speaking I sprang up from my
recumbent position and touched him on the arm. He looked up.
"'Well?' he asked, and his eyes smiled.
"I seized his hand, and pressed it reverently to my lips.
"'My best friend!' I exclaimed. 'What wonders have I not seen--what
truths have I not learned--what mysteries!'
"'On all these things be silent,' replied Heliobas. 'They must not be
lightly spoken of. And of the questions you naturally desire to ask me,
you shall have the answers in due time. What has happened to you is not
wonderful; you have simply been acted upon by scientific means. But
your cure is not yet complete. A few days more passed with me will
restore you thoroughly. Will you consent to remain so long in my
company?'
"Gladly and gratefully I consented, and we spent the next ten days
together, during which Heliobas administered to me certain remedies,
external and internal, which had a marvellous effect in renovating and
invigorating my system. By the expiration of that time I was strong and
well--a sound and sane man, as my rescuer had promised I should be--my
brain was fresh and eager for work, and my mind was filled with new and
grand ideas of art. And I had gained through Heliobas two inestimable
things--a full comprehension of the truth of religion, and the secret
of human destiny; and I had won a LOVE so exquisite!"
Here Cellini paused, and his eyes were uplifted in a sort of wondering
rapture. He continued after a pause:
"Yes, mademoiselle, I discovered that I was loved, and watched over and
guided by ONE so divinely beautiful, so gloriously faithful, that
mortal language fails before the description of such perfection!"
He paused again, and again continued:
"When he found me perfectly healthy again in mind and body, Heliobas
showed me his art of mixing colours. From that hour all my works were
successful. You know that my pictures are eagerly purchased as soon as
completed, and that the colour I obtain in them is to the world a
mystery almost magical. Yet there is not one among the humblest of
artists who could not, if he chose, make use of the same means as I
have done to gain the nearly imperishable hues that still glow on the
canvases of Raphael. But of this there is no need to speak just now. I
have told you my story, mademoiselle, and it now rests with me to apply
its meaning to yourself. You are attending?"
"Perfectly," I replied; and, indeed, my interest at this point was so
strong that I could almost hear the expectant beating of my heart.
Cellini resumed:
"Electricity, mademoiselle, is, as you are aware, the wonder of our
age. No end can be foreseen to the marvels it is capable of
accomplishing. But one of the most important branches of this great
science is ignorantly derided just now by the larger portion of
society--I mean the use of human electricity; that force which is in
each one of us--in you and in me--and, to a very large extent, in
Heliobas. He has cultivated the electricity in his own system to such
an extent that his mere touch, his lightest glance, have healing in
them, or the reverse, as he chooses to exert his power--I may say it is
never the reverse, for he is full of kindness, sympathy, and pity for
all humanity. His influence is so great that he can, without speaking,
by his mere presence suggest his own thoughts to other people who are
perfect strangers, and cause them to design and carry out certain
actions in accordance with his plans. You are incredulous?
Mademoiselle, this power is in every one of us; only we do not
cultivate it, because our education is yet so imperfect. To prove the
truth of what I say, _I_, though I have only advanced a little way in
the cultivation of my own electric force, even _I_ have influenced YOU.
You cannot deny it. By my thought, impelled to you, you saw clearly my
picture that was actually veiled. By MY force, you replied correctly to
a question I asked you concerning that same picture. By MY desire, you
gave me, without being aware of it, a message from one I love when you
said, 'Dieu vous garde!' You remember? And the elixir I gave you, which
is one of the simplest remedies discovered by Heliobas, had the effect
of making you learn what he intended you to learn--his name."
"He!" I exclaimed. "Why, he does not know me--he can have no intentions
towards me!"
"Mademoiselle," replied Cellini gravely, "if you will think again of
the last of your three dreams, you will not doubt that he HAS
intentions towards you. As I told you, he is a PHYSICAL ELECTRICIAN. By
that is meant a great deal. He knows by instinct whether he is or will
be needed sooner or later. Let me finish what I have to say. You are
ill, mademoiselle--ill from over-work. You are an improvisatrice--that
is, you have the emotional genius of music, a spiritual thing
unfettered by rules, and utterly misunderstood by the world. You
cultivate this faculty, regardless of cost; you suffer, and you will
suffer more. In proportion as your powers in music grow, so will your
health decline. Go to Heliobas; he will do for you what he did for me.
Surely you will not hesitate? Between years of weak invalidism and
perfect health, in less than a fortnight, there can be no question of
choice."
I rose from my seat slowly.
"Where is this Heliobas?" I asked. "In Paris?"
"Yes, in Paris. If you decide to go there, take my advice, and go
alone. You can easily make some excuse to your friends. I will give you
the address of a ladies' Pension, where you will be made at home and
comfortable. May I do this?"
"If you please," I answered.
He wrote rapidly in pencil on a card of his own:
"MADAME DENISE,
"36, Avenue du Midi,
"Paris,"
and handed it to me. I stood still where I had risen, thinking deeply.
I had been impressed and somewhat startled by Cellini's story; but I
was in no way alarmed at the idea of trusting myself to the hands of a
physical electrician such as Heliobas professed to be. I knew that
there were many cases of serious illnesses being cured by means of
electricity--that electric baths and electric appliances of all
descriptions were in ordinary use; and I saw no reason to be surprised
at the fact of a man being in existence who had cultivated electric
force within himself to such an extent that he was able to use it as a
healing power. There seemed to me to be really nothing extraordinary in
it. The only part of Cellini's narration I did not credit was the
soul-transmigration he professed to have experienced; and I put that
down to the over-excitement of his imagination at the time of his first
interview with Heliobas. But I kept this thought to myself. In any
case, I resolved to go to Paris. The great desire of my life was to be
in perfect health, and I determined to omit no means of obtaining this
inestimable blessing. Cellini watched me as I remained standing before
him in silent abstraction.
"Will you go?" he inquired at last.
"Yes; I will go," I replied. "But will you give me a letter to your
friend?"
"Leo has taken it and all necessary explanations already," said
Cellini, smiling; "I knew you would go. Heliobas expects you the day
after to-morrow. His residence is Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. You are
not angry with me, mademoiselle? I could not help knowing that you
would go."
I smiled faintly.
"Electricity again, I suppose! No, I am not angry. Why should I be? I
thank you very much, signor, and I shall thank you more if Heliobas
indeed effects my cure."
"Oh, that is certain, positively certain," answered Cellini; "you can
indulge that hope as much as you like, mademoiselle, for it is one that
cannot be disappointed. Before you leave me, you will look at your own
picture, will you not?" and, advancing to his easel, he uncovered it.
I was greatly surprised. I thought he had but traced the outline of my
features, whereas the head was almost completed. I looked at it as I
would look at the portrait of a stranger. It was a wistful, sad-eyed,
plaintive face, and on the pale gold of the hair rested a coronal of
lilies.
"It will soon be finished," said Cellini, covering the easel again; "I
shall not need another sitting, which is fortunate, as it is so
necessary for you to go away. And now will you look at the 'Life and
Death' once more?"
I raised my eyes to the grand picture, unveiled that day in all its
beauty.
"The face of the Life-Angel there," went on Cellini quietly, "is a poor
and feeble resemblance of the One I love. You knew I was betrothed,
mademoiselle?"
I felt confused, and was endeavouring to find an answer to this when he
continued:
"Do not trouble to explain, for _I_ know how YOU knew. But no more of
this. Will you leave Cannes to-morrow?"
"Yes. In the morning."
"Then good-bye, mademoiselle. Should I never see you again---"
"Never see me again!" I interrupted. "Why, what do you mean?"
"I do not allude to your destinies, but to mine," he said, with a
kindly look. "My business may call me away from here before you come
back--our paths may lie apart--many circumstances may occur to prevent
our meeting--so that, I repeat, should I never see you again, you will,
I hope, bear me in your friendly remembrance as one who was sorry to
see you suffer, and who was the humble means of guiding you to renewed
health and happiness."
I held out my hand, and my eyes filled with tears. There was something
so gentle and chivalrous about him, and withal so warm and sympathetic,
that I felt indeed as if I were bidding adieu to one of the truest
friends I should ever have in my life.
"I hope nothing will cause you to leave Cannes till I return to it," I
said with real earnestness. "I should like you to judge of my
restoration to health."
"There will be no need for that," he replied; "I shall know when you
are quite recovered through Heliobas."
He pressed my hand warmly.
"I brought back the book you lent me," I went on; "but I should like a
copy of it for myself. Can I get it anywhere?"
"Heliobas will give you one with pleasure," replied Cellini; "you have
only to make the request. The book is not on sale. It was printed for
private circulation only. And now, mademoiselle, we part. I
congratulate you on the comfort and joy awaiting you in Paris. Do not
forget the address--Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. Farewell!"
And again shaking my hand cordially, he stood at his door watching me
as I passed out and began to ascend the stairs leading to my room. On
the landing I paused, and, looking round, saw him still there. I smiled
and waved my hand. He did the same in response, once--twice; then
turning abruptly, disappeared.
That afternoon I explained to Colonel and Mrs. Everard that I had
resolved to consult a celebrated physician in Paris (whose name,
however, I did not mention), and should go there alone for a few days.
On hearing that I knew of a well-recommended ladies' Pension, they made
no objection to my arrangements, and they agreed to remain at the Hotel
de L---till I returned. I gave them no details of my plans, and of
course never mentioned Raffaello Cellini in connection with the matter.
A nervous and wretchedly agitated night made me more than ever
determined to try the means of cure proposed to me. At ten o'clock the
following morning I left Cannes by express train for Paris. Just before
starting I noticed that the lilies of the valley Cellini had given me
for the dance had, in spite of my care, entirely withered, and were
already black with decay--so black that they looked as though they had
been scorched by a flash of lightning.