A Romance of Two Worlds - Marie Corelli (online e reader .TXT) 📗

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 tomorrow 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.

 

CHAPTER VII.

ZARA AND PRINCE IVAN.

 

The sun poured brilliantly into my room when I awoke the next morning. I was free from all my customary aches and pains, and a delightful sense of vigour and elasticity pervaded my frame. I rose at once, and, looking at my watch, found to my amazement that it was twelve o’clock in the day! Hastily throwing on my dressing-gown, I rang the bell, and the servant appeared.

“Is it actually mid-day?” I asked her. “Why did you not call me?”

The girl smiled apologetically.

“I did knock at mademoiselle’s door, but she gave me no answer. Madame Denise came up also, and entered the room; but seeing mademoiselle in so sound a sleep, she said it was a pity to disturb mademoiselle.”

Which statement good Madame Denise, toiling upstairs just then with difficulty, she being stout and short of breath, confirmed with many smiling nods of her head.

“Breakfast shall be served at the instant,” she said, rubbing her fat hands together; “but to disturb you when you slept—ah, Heaven! the sleep of an infant—I could not do it! I should have been wicked!”

I thanked her for her care of me; I could have kissed her, she looked so motherly, and kind, and altogether lovable. And I felt so merry and well! She and the servant retired to prepare my coffee, and I proceeded to make my toilette. As I brushed out my hair I heard the sound of a violin. Someone was playing next door. I listened, and recognised a famous Beethoven Concerto. The unseen musician played brilliantly and withal tenderly, both touch and tone reminding me of some beautiful verses in a book of poems I had recently read, called “Love-Letters of a Violinist,” in which the poet [FOOTNOTE: Author of the equally beautiful idyl, “Gladys the Singer,” included in the new American copyright edition just issued.] talks of his “loved Amati,” and says: “I prayed my prayer. I wove into my song

Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak, The wan despair that words could never speak. I prayed as if my spirit did belong To some old master who was wise and strong, Because he lov’d and suffered, and was weak.

“I trill’d the notes, and curb’d them to a sigh, And when they falter’d most, I made them leap Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep A young she-devil. I was fired thereby To bolder efforts—and a muffled cry Came from the strings as if a saint did weep.

“I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow Just time enough to fit it to a mesh Of merry tones, and drew it back afresh, To talk of truth, and constancy, and woe, And life, and love, and madness, and the glow Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.”

All my love for music welled freshly up in my heart; I, who had felt disinclined to touch the piano for months, now longed to try my strength again upon the familiar and responsive keyboard. For a piano has never been a mere piano to me; it is a friend who answers to my thought, and whose notes meet my fingers with caressing readiness and obedience.

Breakfast came, and I took it with great relish. Then, to pass the day, I went out and called on Mrs. Everard’s friends, Mr. and Mrs. Challoner and their daughters. I found them very agreeable, with that easy bonhomie and lack of stiffness that distinguishes the best Americans. Finding out through Mrs. Everard’s letter that I was an “artiste” they at once concluded I must need support and patronage, and with impulsive large-heartedness were beginning to plan as to the best means of organizing a concert for me. I was taken by surprise at this, for I had generally found the exact reverse of this sympathy among English patrons of art, who were never tired of murmuring the usual platitudes about there being “so many musicians,” “music was overdone,” “improvising was not understood or cared for,” etc., etc.

But these agreeable Americans, as soon as they discovered that I had not come for any professional reason to Paris, but only to consult a physician about my health, were actually disappointed.

“Oh, we shall persuade you to give a recital some time!” persisted the handsome smiling mother of the family. “I know lots of people in Paris. We’ll get it up for you!”

I protested, half laughing, that I had no idea of the kind, but they were incorrigibly generous.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Challoner, arranging her diamond rings on her pretty white hand with pardonable pride. “Brains don’t go for nothing in OUR country. As soon as you are fixed up in health, we’ll give you a grand soiree in Paris, and we’ll work up all our folks in the place. Don’t tell me you are not as glad of dollars as any one of us.”

“Dollars are very good,” I admitted, “but real appreciation is far better.”

“Well, you shall have both from us,” said Mrs. Challoner. “And now, will you stop to luncheon?”

I accepted this invitation, given as it was with the most friendly affability, and enjoyed myself very much.

“You don’t look ill,” said the eldest Miss Challoner to me, later on. “I don’t see that you want a physician.”

“Oh, I am getting much better now,” I replied; “and I hope soon to be quite well.”

“Who’s your doctor?”

I hesitated. Somehow the name of Heliobas would not come to my lips. Fortunately Mrs. Challoner diverted her daughter’s attention at this moment by the announcement that a dressmaker was waiting to see her; and in the face of such an important visit, no one remembered to ask me again the name of my medical adviser.

I left the Grand Hotel in good time to prepare for my second visit to Heliobas. As I was going there to dinner I made a slightly dressy toilette, if a black silk robe relieved with a cluster of pale pink roses can be called dressy. This time I drove to the Hotel Mars, dismissing the coachman, however, before ascending the steps. The door opened and closed as usual, and the first person I saw in the hall was Heliobas himself, seated in one of the easy-chairs, reading a volume of Plato. He rose and greeted me cordially. Before I could speak a word, he said:

“You need not tell me that you slept well. I see it in your eyes and face. You feel better?”

My gratitude to him was so great that I found it difficult to express my thanks. Tears rushed to my eyes, yet I tried to smile, though I could not speak. He saw my emotion, and continued kindly:

“I am as thankful as you can be for the cure which I see has begun, and will soon be effected. My sister is waiting to see you. Will you come to her room?”

We ascended a flight of stairs thickly carpeted, and bordered on each side by tropical ferns and flowers, placed in exquisitely painted china pots and vases. I heard the distant singing of many birds mingled with the ripple and plash of waters. We reached a landing where the afterglow of the set sun streamed through a high oriel window of richly stained glass. Turning towards the left, Heliobas drew aside the folds of some azure satin hangings, and calling in a low voice “Zara!” motioned me to enter. I stepped into a spacious and lofty apartment where the light seemed to soften and merge into many shades of opaline radiance and delicacy—a room the beauty of which would at any other time have astonished and delighted me, but which now appeared as nothing beside the surpassing loveliness of the woman who occupied it. Never shall I behold again any face or form so divinely beautiful! She was about the