“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.”