A Romance of Two Worlds | Page 8

much of that intoxicating sweet they can
swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must admit. I
congratulate you!"
Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking
curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:
"I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for
your portrait?"
"I!" I exclaimed, with astonishment. "Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine
why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing
in my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention."
"You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, "if I presume

to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features to
my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that your
face has not that roundness and colour formerly habitual to it. But I am
not an admirer of the milkmaid type of beauty. Everywhere I seek for
intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement--in short, mademoiselle,
you have the face of one whom the inner soul consumes, and, as such,
may I plead again with you to give me a little of your spare time? YOU
WILL NOT REGRET IT, I ASSURE YOU."
These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular
impressiveness. I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily; he
returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me,
followed by that inexplicable sensation of absolute calm that I had
before experienced. I smiled--I could, not help smiling.
"I will come to-morrow," I said.
"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle! Can you be here at noon?"
I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted
enthusiasm.
"Of course! Any time you like, signor. "We will arrange our excursions
so that they shall not interfere with the sittings. It will be most
interesting to watch the picture growing day by day. What will you call
it, signor? By some fancy title?"
"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