A Romance of Two Worlds
Page 48I 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.