A Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📕

“It will depend on its appearance when completed,” he replied, as he threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual ceremonious politeness.

“Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!” and the violet velvet curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.

“Is there not something strange about that young man?” said Mrs. Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L–- back to our own rooms. “Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of both qualities mixed up?”

“I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to understand the poetical vagaries of genius,” I replied. “He is certainly very uncommon.”

“Well!” continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing; “all I can say is that I wouldn’t let him paint MY portrait if he were to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so nervous, were not afraid of him.”

“I thought you liked him,” I said.

“So I do. So does my husband. He’s awfully handsome and clever, and all that—but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he is slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only criticism of art is silence? Isn’t that utter rubbish?”

“The only TRUE criticism,” I corrected her gently.

“Well, it’s all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?”

“I don’t quite understand you,” I answered; “I cannot remember his saying anything dreadful.”

“Oh, I have it now,” continued Amy with rapidity; “it was awful! He said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that was most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked—ghastly! What did he mean by it, I wonder?”

I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child, while in my dreams the face of Cellini’s “Angel of life” smiled at me, and seemed to suggest peace.

CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.

The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered the studio. I was alone, for Amy, after some qualms of conscience respecting chaperonage, propriety, and Mrs. Grundy, had yielded to my entreaties and gone for a drive with some friends. In spite of the fears she began to entertain concerning the Mephistophelian character of Raffaello Cellini, there was one thing of which both she and I felt morally certain: namely, that no truer or more honourable gentleman than he ever walked on the earth. Under his protection the loveliest and loneliest woman that ever lived would have been perfectly safe—as safe as though she were shut up, like the princess in the fairy-tale, in a brazen tower, of which only an undiscoverable serpent possessed the key. When I arrived, the rooms were deserted, save for the presence of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who, as I entered, rose, and shaking his shaggy body, sat down before me and offered me his huge paw, wagging his tail in the most friendly manner all the while, I at once responded to his cordial greeting, and as I stroked his noble head, I wondered where the animal had come from; for though—we had visited Signor Cellini’s studio every day, there had been no sign or mention of this stately, brown-eyed, four-footed companion. I seated myself, and the dog immediately lay down at my feet, every now and then looking up at me with an affectionate glance and a renewed wagging of his tail. Glancing round the well-known room, I noticed that the picture I admired so much was veiled by a curtain of Oriental stuff, in which were embroidered threads of gold mingled with silks of various brilliant hues. On the working easel was a large square canvas, already prepared, as I supposed, for my features to be traced thereon. It was an exceedingly warm morning, and though the windows as well as the glass doors of the conservatory were wide open, I found the air of the studio very oppressive. I perceived on the table a finely-wrought decanter of Venetian glass, in which clear water sparkled temptingly. Rising from my chair, I took an antique silver goblet from the mantelpiece, filled it with the cool fluid, and was about to drink, when the cup was suddenly snatched from my hands, and the voice of Cellini, changed from its usual softness to a tone both imperious and commanding, startled me.

“Do not drink that,” he said; “you must not! You dare not! I forbid you!”

I looked up at him in mute astonishment. His face was very pale, and his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Slowly my self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly:

“YOU forbid me, signor? Surely you forget yourself. What harm have I done in helping myself to a simple glass of water in your studio? You are not usually so inhospitable.”

While I spoke his manner changed, the colour returned to his face, and his eyes softened—he smiled.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle, for my brusquerie. It is true I forgot myself for a moment. But you were in danger, and–-”

“In danger!” I exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes, mademoiselle. This,” and he held up the Venetian decanter to the light, “is not water simply. If you will observe it now with the sunshine beating full against it, I think you will perceive peculiarities in it that will assure you of my veracity.”

I looked as he bade me, and saw, to my surprise, that the fluid was never actually still for a second. A sort of internal bubbling seemed to work in its centre, and curious specks and lines of crimson and gold flashed through it from time to time.

“What is it?” I asked; adding with a half-smile, “Are you the possessor of a specimen of the far-famed Aqua Tofana?”

Cellini placed the decanter carefully on a shelf, and I noticed that he chose a particular spot for it, where the rays of the sun could fall perpendicularly upon the vessel containing it. Then turning to me, he replied:

“Aqua Tofana, mademoiselle, is a deadly poison, known to the ancients and also to many learned chemists of our day. It is a clear and colourless liquid, but it is absolutely still—as still as a stagnant pool. What I have just shown you is not poison, but quite the reverse. I will prove this to you at once.” And taking a tiny liqueur glass from a side table, he filled it with the strange fluid and drank it off, carefully replacing the stopper in the decanter.

“But, Signor Cellini,” I urged, “if it is so harmless, why did you forbid my tasting it? Why did you say there was danger for me when I was about to drink it?”

“Because, mademoiselle, for YOU it would be dangerous. Your health is weak, your nerves unstrung. That elixir is a powerful vivifying tonic, acting with great rapidity on the entire system, and rushing through the veins with the swiftness of ELECTRICITY. I am accustomed to it; it is my daily medicine. But I was brought to it by slow, and almost imperceptible degrees. A single teaspoonful of that fluid, mademoiselle, administered to anyone not prepared to receive it, would be instant death, though its actual use is to vivify and strengthen human life. You understand now why I said you were in danger?”

“I understand,” I replied, though in sober truth I was mystified and puzzled.

“And you forgive my seeming rudeness?”

“Oh, certainly! But you have aroused my curiosity. I should like to know more about this strange medicine of yours.”

“You shall know more if you wish,” said Cellini, his usual equable humour and good spirits now quite restored. “You shall know everything; but not to-day. We have too little time. I have not yet commenced your picture. And I forgot—you were thirsty, and I was, as you said, inhospitable. You must permit me to repair my fault.”

And with a courteous salute he left the room, to return almost immediately with a tumbler full of some fragrant, golden-coloured liquid, in which lumps of ice glittered refreshingly. A few loose rose-leaves were scattered on the top of this dainty-looking beverage.

“You may enjoy this without fear,” said he, smiling; “it will do you good. It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface. That is a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They float away from your lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle.”

I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer moonlight. While I sipped it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched himself in a couchant posture on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini had first entered the room, rose and walked majestically to my side and rubbed his head caressingly against the folds of my dress.

“Leo has made friends with you, I see,” said Cellini. “You should take that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his choice of acquaintance, and most steadfast when he has once made up his mind. He has more decision of character than many a statesman.”

“How is it we have never seen him before?” I inquired. “You never told us you had such a splendid companion.”

“I am not his master,” replied the artist. “He only favours me with a visit occasionally. He arrived from Paris last night, and came straight here, sure of his welcome. He does not confide his plans to me, but I suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it advisable. He knows his own business best.”

I laughed.

“What a clever dog! Does he journey on foot, or does he take the train?”

“I believe he generally patronizes the railway. All the officials know him, and he gets into the guard’s van as a matter of course. Sometimes he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way. But if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its destination. At the end of every six months or so, the railway authorities send the bill of Leo’s journeyings in to his master, when it is always settled without difficulty.”

“And who IS his master?” I ventured to ask.

Cellini’s face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of grave contemplation as he answered:

“His master, mademoiselle, is MY master—one who among men, is supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To him I owe everything—even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude. But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and unmeaning; but hereafter—who knows?–-” and he broke off abruptly with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to