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."