THE HOTEL MARS AND ITS OWNER.
It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon of the day
succeeding the night of my arrival in Paris, when I found myself
standing at the door of the Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. I had proved
the Pension kept by Madame Denise to be everything that could be
desired; and on my presentation of Raffaello Cellini's card of
introduction, I had been welcomed by the maitresse de la maison with a
cordial effusiveness that amounted almost to enthusiasm.
"Ce cher Cellini!" the cheery and pleasant little woman had exclaimed,
as she set before me a deliciously prepared breakfast. "Je l'aime tant!
Il a si bon coeur! et ses beaux yeux! Mon Dieu, comme un ange!"
As soon as I had settled the various little details respecting my room
and attendance, and had changed my travelling-dress for a quiet
visiting toilette, I started for the abode of Heliobas.
The weather was very cold; I had left the summer behind me at Cannes,
to find winter reigning supreme in Paris. A bitter east wind blew, and
a few flakes of snow fell now and then from the frowning sky. The house
to which I betook myself was situated at a commanding corner of a road
facing the Champs Elysees. It was a noble-looking building. The broad
steps leading to the entrance were guarded on either side by a
sculptured Sphinx, each of whom held, in its massive stone paws, a
plain shield, inscribed with the old Roman greeting to strangers,
"Salve!" Over the portico was designed a scroll which bore the name
"Hotel Mars" in clearly cut capitals, and the monogram "C. H."
I ascended the steps with some hesitation, and twice I extended my hand
towards the bell, desiring yet fearing to awaken its summons. I noticed
it was an electric bell, not needing to be pulled but pressed; and at
last, after many doubts and anxious suppositions, I very gently laid my
fingers on the little button which formed its handle. Scarcely had I
done this than the great door slid open rapidly without the least
noise. I looked for the servant in attendance--there was none. I paused
an instant; the door remained invitingly open, and through it I caught
a glimpse of flowers. Resolving to be bold, and to hesitate no longer,
I entered. As I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me
instantly with its previous swiftness and silence.
I found myself in a spacious hall, light and lofty, surrounded with
fluted pillars of white marble. In the centre a fountain bubbled
melodiously, and tossed up every now and then a high jet of sparkling
spray, while round its basin grew the rarest ferns and exotics, which
emitted a subtle and delicate perfume. No cold air penetrated here; it
was as warm and balmy as a spring day in Southern Italy. Light Indian
bamboo chairs provided with luxurious velvet cushions were placed in
various corners between the marble columns, and on one of these I
seated myself to rest a minute, wondering what I should do next, and
whether anyone would come to ask me the cause of my intrusion. My
meditations were soon put to flight by the appearance of a young lad,
who crossed the hall from the left-hand side and approached me. He was
a handsome boy of twelve or thirteen years of age, and he was attired
in a simple Greek costume of white linen, relieved with a broad crimson
silk sash. A small flat crimson cap rested on his thick black curls;
this he lifted with deferential grace, and, saluting me, said
respectfully:
"My master is ready to receive you, mademoiselle."
I rose without a word and followed him, scarcely permitting myself to
speculate as to how his master knew I was there at all.
The hall was soon traversed, and the lad paused before a magnificent
curtain of deep crimson velvet, heavily bordered with gold. Pulling a
twisted cord that hung beside it, the heavy, regal folds parted in
twain with noiseless regularity, and displayed an octagon room, so
exquisitely designed and ornamented that I gazed upon it as upon some
rare and beautiful picture. It was unoccupied, and my young escort
placed a chair for me near the central window, informing me as he did
so that "Monsieur le Comte" would be with me instantly; whereupon he
departed.
Left alone, I gazed in bewilderment at the loveliness round me. The
walls and ceiling were painted in fresco. I could not make out the
subjects, but I could see faces of surpassing beauty smiling from
clouds, and peering between stars and crescents. The furniture appeared
to be of very ancient Arabian design; each chair was a perfect
masterpiece of wood-carving, picked out and inlaid with gold. The sight
of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the
realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of
the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times--both
of that day's issue--lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth
century to me with every possible clearness. There were flowers
everywhere in this apartment--in graceful vases and in gilded osier
baskets--and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled
almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets. Yet it was winter in
Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.
Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of
Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it
more closely, as being the face of a friend. While I looked at it, I
heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old
familiar church chant. I listened. Suddenly I bethought myself of the
three dreams that had visited me, and a kind of nervous dread came upon
me. This Heliobas,--was I right after all in coming to consult him? Was
he not perhaps a mere charlatan? and might not his experiments upon me
prove fruitless, and possibly fatal? An idea seized me that I would
escape while there was yet time. Yes! ... I would not see him to-day,
at any rate; I would write and explain. These and other disjointed
thoughts crossed my mind; and yielding to the unreasoning impulse of
fear that possessed me, I actually turned to leave the room, when I saw
the crimson velvet portiere dividing again in its regular and graceful
folds, and Heliobas himself entered.
I stood mute and motionless. I knew him well; he was the very man I had
seen in my third and last dream; the same noble, calm features; the
same commanding presence; the same keen, clear eyes; the same
compelling smile. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance
except his stately bearing and handsome countenance; his dress was that
of any well-to-do gentleman of the present day, and there was no
affectation of mystery in his manner. He advanced and bowed
courteously; then, with a friendly look, held out his hand. I gave him
mine at once.
"So you are the young musician?" he said, in those warm mellifluous
accents that I had heard before and that I so well remembered. "My
friend Raffaello Cellini has written to me about you. I hear you have
been suffering from physical depression?"
He spoke as any physician might do who inquired after a patient's
health. I was surprised and relieved. I had prepared myself for
something darkly mystical, almost cabalistic; but there was nothing
unusual in the demeanour of this pleasant and good-looking gentleman
who, bidding me be seated, took a chair himself opposite to me, and
observed me with that sympathetic and kindly interest which any
well-bred doctor would esteem it his duty to exhibit. I became quite at
ease, and answered all his questions fully and frankly. He felt my
pulse in the customary way, and studied my face attentively. I
described all my symptoms, and he listened with the utmost patience.
When I had concluded, he leaned back in his chair and appeared to
ponder deeply for some moments. Then he spoke.
"You know, of course, that I am not a doctor?"
"I know," I said; "Signer Cellini explained to me."
"Ah!" and Heliobas smiled. "Raffaello explained as much as he might;
but not everything. I must tell you I have a simple pharmacopoeia of my
own--it contains twelve remedies, and only twelve. In fact there me no
more that are of any use to the human mechanism. All are made of the
juice of plants, and six of them are electric. Raffaello tried you with
one of them, did he not?"
As he put this question, I was aware of a keenly inquiring look sent
from the eyes of my interrogator into mine.
"Yes," I answered frankly, "and it made me dream, and I dreamt of YOU."
Heliobas laughed lightly.
"So!--that is well. Now I am going in the first place to give you what
I am sure will be satisfactory information. If you agree to trust
yourself to my care, you will be in perfect health in a little less
than a fortnight--but you must follow my rules exactly."
I started up from my seat.
"Of course!" I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting all my previous fear of
him; "I will do all you advise, even if you wish to magnetize me as you
magnetized Signor Cellini!"
"I never MAGNETIZED Raffaello," he said gravely; "he was on the verge
of madness, and he had no faith whereby to save himself. I simply set
him free for a time, knowing that his was a genius which would find out
things for itself or perish in the effort. I let him go on a voyage of
discovery, and he came back perfectly satisfied. That is all. You do
not need his experience."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"You are a woman--your desire is to be well and strong, health being
beauty--to love and to be beloved--to wear pretty toilettes and to be
admired; and you have a creed which satisfies you, and which you
believe in without proofs."
There was the slightest possible tinge of mockery in his voice as he
said these words. A tumultuous rush of feelings overcame me. My high
dreams of ambition, my innate scorn of the trite and commonplace, my
deep love of art, my desires of fame--all these things bore down upon
my heart and overcame it, and a pride too deep for tears arose in me
and found utterance.
"You think I am so slight and weak a thing!" I exclaimed. "YOU, who
profess to understand the secrets of electricity--you have no better
instinctive knowledge of me than that! Do you deem women all alike--all
on one common level, fit for nothing but to be the toys or drudges of
men? Can you not realize that there are some among them who despise the
inanities of everyday life--who care nothing for the routine of
society, and whose hearts are filled with cravings that no mere human
love or life can satisfy? Yes--even weak women are capable of
greatness; and if we do sometimes dream of what we cannot accomplish
through lack of the physical force necessary for large achievements,
that is not our fault but our misfortune. We did not create ourselves.
We did not ask to be born with the over-sensitiveness, the fatal
delicacy, the highly-strung nervousness of the feminine nature.
Monsieur Heliobas, you are a learned and far-seeing man, I have no
doubt; but you do not read me aright if you judge me as a mere woman
who is perfectly contented with the petty commonplaces of ordinary
living. And as for my creed, what is it to you whether I kneel in the
silence of my own room or in the glory of a lighted cathedral to pour
out my very soul to ONE whom I know exists, and whom I am satisfied to
believe in, as you say, without proofs, save such proofs as I obtain
from my own inner consciousness? I tell you, though, in your opinion it
is evident my sex is against me, I would rather die than sink into the
miserable nonentity of such lives as are lived by the majority of
women."
I paused, overcome by my own feelings. Heliobas smiled.
"So! You are stung!" he said quietly; "stung into action. That is as it
should be. Resume your seat, mademoiselle, and do not be angry with me.
I am studying you for your own good. In the meantime permit me to
analyze your words a little. You are young and inexperienced. You speak
of the 'over-sensitiveness, the fatal delicacy, the highly-strung
nervousness of the feminine nature.' My dear lady, if you had lived as
long as I have, you would know that these are mere stock phrases--for
the most part meaningless. As a rule, women are less sensitive than
men. There are many of your sex who are nothing but lumps of lymph and
fatty matter--women with less instinct than the dumb beasts, and with
more brutality. There are others who,--adding the low cunning of the
monkey to the vanity of the peacock,--seek no other object but the
furtherance of their own designs, which are always petty even when not
absolutely mean. There are obese women whose existence is a doze
between dinner and tea. There are women with thin lips and pointed
noses, who only live to squabble over domestic grievances and interfere
in their neighbours' business. There are your murderous women with
large almond eyes, fair white hands, and voluptuous red lips, who,
deprived of the dagger or the poison-bowl, will slay a reputation in a
few lazily enunciated words, delivered with a perfectly high-bred
accent. There are the miserly woman, who look after cheese-parings and
candle-ends, and lock up the soap. There are the spiteful women whose
very breath is acidity and venom. There are the frivolous women whose
chitter-chatter and senseless giggle are as empty as the rattling of
dry peas on a drum. In fact, the delicacy of women is extremely
overrated--their coarseness is never done full justice to. I have heard
them recite in public selections of a kind that no man would dare to
undertake--such as Tennyson's 'Rizpah,' for instance. I know a woman
who utters every line of it, with all its questionable allusions,
boldly before any and everybody, without so much as an attempt at
blushing. I assure you men are far more delicate than women--far more
chivalrous--far larger in their views, and more generous in their
sentiments. But I will not deny the existence of about four women in
every two hundred and fifty, who may be, and possibly are, examples of
what the female sex was originally intended to be--pure-hearted,
self-denying, gentle and truthful--filled with tenderness and
inspiration. Heaven knows my own mother was all this and more! And my
sister is--. But let me speak to you of yourself. You love music, I
understand--you are a professional artist?"
"I was," I answered, "till my state of health stopped me from working."
Heliobas bent his eyes upon me in friendly sympathy.
"You were, and you will be again, an improvisatrice" he went on. "Do
you not find it difficult to make your audiences understand your aims?"
I smiled as the remembrance of some of my experiences in public came to
my mind.
"Yes," I said, half laughing. "In England, at least, people do not know
what is meant by IMPROVISING. They think it is to take a little theme
and compose variations on it--the mere ABC of the art. But to sit down
to the piano and plan a whole sonata or symphony in your head, and play
it while planning it, is a thing they do not and will not understand.
They come to hear, and they wonder and go away, and the critics declare
it to be CLAP-TRAP."
"Exactly!" replied Heliobas. "But you are to be congratulated on having
attained this verdict. Everything that people cannot quite understand
is called CLAP-TRAP in England; as for instance the matchless
violin-playing of Sarasate; the tempestuous splendor of Rubinstein; the
wailing throb of passion in Hollmann's violoncello--this is, according
to the London press, CLAP-TRAP; while the coldly correct performances
of Joachim and the 'icily-null' renderings of Charles Halle are voted
'magnificent' and 'full of colour.' But to return to yourself. Will you
play to me?"
"I have not touched the instrument for two months," I said; "I am
afraid I am out of practice."
"Then you shall not exert yourself to-day," returned Heliobas kindly.
"But I believe I can help you with your improvisations. You compose the
music as you play, you tell me. Well, have you any idea how the
melodies or the harmonies form themselves in your brain?"
"Not the least in the world," I replied.
"Is the act of thinking them out an effort to you?" he asked.
"Not at all. They come as though someone else were planning them for
me."
"Well, well! I think I can certainly be of use to you in this matter as
in others. I understand your temperament thoroughly. And now let me
give you my first prescription."
He went to a corner of the room and lifted from the floor an ebony
casket, curiously carved and ornamented with silver. This he unlocked.
It contained twelve flasks of cut glass, stoppered with gold and
numbered in order. He next pulled out a side drawer in this casket, and
in it I saw several little thin empty glass tubes, about the size of a
cigarette-holder. Taking two of these he filled them from two of the
larger flasks, corked them tightly, and then turning to me, said:
"To-night, on going to bed, have a warm bath, empty the contents of the
tube marked No. 1 into it, and then immerse yourself thoroughly for
about five minutes. After the bath, put the fluid in this other tube
marked 2, into a tumbler of fresh spring water, and drink it off. Then
go straight to bed."
"Shall I have any dreams?" I inquired with a little anxiety.
"Certainly not," replied Heliobas, smiling. "I wish you to sleep as
soundly as a year-old child. Dreams are not for you to-night. Can you
come to me tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock? If you can arrange to
stay to dinner, my sister will be pleased to meet you; but perhaps you
are otherwise engaged?"
I told him I was not, and explained where I had taken rooms, adding
that I had come to Paris expressly to put myself under his treatment.
"You shall have no cause to regret this journey," he said earnestly. "I
can cure you thoroughly, and I will. I forget your nationality--you are
not English?"
"No, not entirely. I am half Italian."
"Ah, yes! I remember now. But you have been educated in England?"
"Partly."
"I am glad it is only partly," remarked Heliobas. "If it had been
entirely, your improvisations would have had no chance. In fact you
never would have improvised. You would have played the piano like poor
mechanical Arabella Goddard. As it is, there is some hope of
originality in you--you need not be one of the rank and file unless you
choose."
"I do not choose," I said.
"Well, but you must take the consequences, and they are bitter. A woman
who does not go with her time is voted eccentric; a woman who prefers
music to tea and scandal is an undesirable acquaintance; and a woman
who prefers Byron to Austin Dobson is--in fact, no measure can gauge
her general impossibility!" I laughed gaily. "I will take all the
consequences as willingly as I will take your medicines," I said,
stretching out my hand for the little vases which he gave me wrapped in
paper. "And I thank you very much, monsieur. And"--here I hesitated.
Ought I not to ask him his fee? Surely the medicines ought to be paid
for?
Heliobas appeared to read my thoughts, for he said, as though answering
my unuttered question:
"I do not accept fees, mademoiselle. To relieve your mind from any
responsibility of gratitude to me, I will tell you at once that I never
promise to effect a cure unless I see that the person who comes to be
cured has a certain connection with myself. If the connection exists I
am bound by fixed laws to serve him or her. Of course I am able also to
cure those who are NOT by nature connected with me; but then I have to
ESTABLISH a connection, and this takes time, and is sometimes very
difficult to accomplish, almost as tremendous a task as the laying down
of the Atlantic cable. But in your case I am actually COMPELLED to do
my best for you, so you need be under no sense of obligation."
Here was a strange speech--the first really inexplicable one I had
heard from his lips.
"I am connected with you?" I asked, surprised. "How? In what way?"
"It would take too long to explain to you just now," said Heliobas
gently; "but I can prove to you in a moment that a connection DOES
exist between YOUR inner self, and MY inner self, if you wish it."
"I do wish it very much," I answered.
"Then take my hand," continued Heliobas, stretching it out, "and look
steadily at me."
I obeyed, half trembling. As I gazed, a veil appeared to fall from my
eyes. A sense of security, of comfort, and of absolute confidence came
upon me, and I saw what might be termed THE IMAGE OF ANOTHER FACE
looking at me THROUGH or BEHIND the actual form and face of Heliobas.
And that other face was his, and yet not his; but whatever it appeared
to be, it was the face of a friend to ME, one that I was certain I had
known long, long ago, and moreover one that I must have loved in some
distant time, for my whole soul seemed to yearn towards that indistinct
haze where smiled the fully recognised yet unfamiliar countenance. This
strange sensation lasted but a few seconds, for Heliobas suddenly
dropped my hand. The room swam round me; the walls seemed to rock; then
everything steadied and came right again, and all was as usual, only I
was amazed and bewildered.
"What does it mean?" I murmured.
"It means the simplest thing in nature," replied Heliobas quietly,
"namely, that your soul and mine are for some reason or other placed on
the same circle of electricity. Nothing more nor less. Therefore we
must serve each other. Whatever I do for you, you have it in your power
to repay me amply for hereafter."
I met the steady glance of his keen eyes, and a sense of some
indestructible force within me gave me a sudden courage.
"Decide for me as you please," I answered fearlessly. "I trust you
completely, though I do not know why I do so."
"You will know before long. You are satisfied of the fact that my touch
can influence you?"
"Yes; most thoroughly."
"Very well. All other explanations, if you desire them, shall be given
you in due time. In the power I possess over you and some others, there
is neither mesmerism nor magnetism--nothing but a purely scientific
fact which can be clearly and reasonably proved and demonstrated. But
till you are thoroughly restored to health, we will defer all
discussion. And now, mademoiselle, permit me to escort you to the door.
I shall expect you to-morrow."
Together we left the beautiful room in which this interview had taken
place, and crossed the hall. As we approached the entrance, Heliobas
turned towards me and said with a smile:
"Did not the manoeuvres of my street-door astonish you?"
"A little," I confessed.
"It is very simple. The button you touch outside is electric; it opens
the door and at the same time rings the bell in my study, thus
informing me of a visitor. When the visitor steps across the threshold
he treads, whether he will or no, on another apparatus, which closes
the door behind him and rings another bell in my page's room, who
immediately comes to me for orders. You see how easy? And from within
it is managed in almost the same manner."
And he touched a handle similar to the one outside, and the door opened
instantly. Heliobas held out his hand--that hand which a few minutes
previously had exercised such strange authority over me.
"Good-bye, mademoiselle. You are not afraid of me now?"
I laughed. "I do not think I was ever really afraid of you," I said.
"If I was, I am not so any longer. You have promised me health, and
that promise is sufficient to give me entire courage."
"That is well," said Heliobas. "Courage and hope in themselves are the
precursors of physical and mental energy. Remember to-morrow at five,
and do not keep late hours to-night. I should advise you to be in bed
by ten at the latest."
I agreed to this, and we shook hands and parted. I walked blithely
along, back to the Avenue du Midi, where, on my arrival indoors, I
found a letter from Mrs. Everard. She wrote "in haste" to give me the
names of some friends of hers whom she had discovered, through the
"American Register," to be staying at the Grand Hotel. She begged me to
call upon them, and enclosed two letters of introduction for the
purpose. She concluded her epistle by saying:
"Raffaello Cellini has been invisible ever since your departure, but
our inimitable waiter, Alphonse, says he is very busy finishing a
picture for the Salon--something that we have never seen. I shall
intrude myself into his studio soon on some pretence or other, and will
then let you know all about it. In the meantime, believe me,
"Your ever devoted friend, AMY."
I answered this letter, and then spent a pleasant evening at the
Pension, chatting sociably with Madame Denise and another cheery little
Frenchwoman, a day governess, who boarded there, and who had no end of
droll experiences to relate, her enviable temperament being to always
see the humorous side of life. I thoroughly enjoyed her sparkling
chatter and her expressive gesticulations, and we all three made
ourselves merry till bedtime. Acting on the advice of Heliobas, I
retired early to my room, where a warm bath had been prepared in
compliance with my orders. I uncorked the glass tube No. 1, and poured
the colourless fluid it contained into the water, which immediately
bubbled gently, as though beginning to boil. After watching it for a
minute or two, and observing that this seething movement steadily
continued, I undressed quickly and stepped in. Never shall I forget the
exquisite sensation I experienced! I can only describe it as the poor
little Doll's Dressmaker in "Our Mutual Friend" described her angel
visitants, her "blessed children," who used to come and "take her up
and make her light." If my body had been composed of no grosser matter
than fire and air, I could not have felt more weightless, more buoyant,
more thoroughly exhilarated than when, at the end of the prescribed
five minutes, I got out of that marvellous bath of healing! As I
prepared for bed, I noticed that the bubbling of the water had entirely
ceased; but this was easy of comprehension, for if it had contained
electricity, as I supposed, my body had absorbed it by contact, which
would account for the movement being stilled. I now took the second
little phial, and prepared it as I had been told. This time the fluid
was motionless. I noticed it was very faintly tinged with amber. I
drank it off--it was perfectly tasteless. Once in bed, I seemed to have
no power to think any more--my eyes closed readily--the slumber of a
year-old child, as Heliobas had said, came upon me with resistless and
sudden force, and I remembered no more.