CHAPTER V.

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.