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!”