Left alone, I gazed in bewilderment at the loveliness round me. The walls and ceiling were painted in fresco. I could not make out the subjects, but I could see faces of surpassing beauty smiling from clouds, and peering between stars and crescents. The furniture appeared to be of very ancient Arabian design; each chair was a perfect masterpiece of wood-carving, picked out and inlaid with gold. The sight of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times—both of that day's issue—lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth century to me with every possible clearness. There were flowers everywhere in this apartment—in graceful vases and in gilded osier baskets—and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets. Yet it was winter in Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.
Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it more closely, as being the face of a friend. While I looked at it, I heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old familiar church chant. I listened. Suddenly I bethought myself of the three dreams that had visited me, and a kind of nervous dread came upon me. This Heliobas,—was I right after all in coming to consult him? Was he not perhaps a mere charlatan? and might not his experiments upon me prove fruitless, and possibly fatal? An idea seized me that I would escape while there was yet time. Yes! ... I would not see him to-day, at any rate; I would write and explain. These and other disjointed thoughts crossed my mind; and yielding to the unreasoning impulse of fear that possessed me, I actually turned to leave the room, when I saw the crimson velvet portiere dividing again in its regular and graceful folds, and Heliobas himself entered.
I stood mute and motionless. I knew him well; he was the very man I had seen in my third and last dream; the same noble, calm features; the same commanding presence; the same keen, clear eyes; the same compelling smile. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance except his stately bearing and handsome countenance; his dress was that of any well-to-do gentleman of the present day, and there was no affectation of mystery in his manner. He advanced and bowed courteously; then, with a friendly look, held out his hand. I gave him mine at once.
"So you are the young musician?" he said, in those warm mellifluous accents that I had heard before and that I so well remembered. "My friend Raffaello Cellini has written to me about you. I hear you have been suffering from physical depression?"
He spoke as any physician might do who inquired after a patient's health. I was surprised and relieved. I had prepared myself for something darkly mystical, almost cabalistic; but there was nothing unusual in the demeanour of this pleasant and good-looking gentleman who, bidding me be seated, took a chair himself opposite to me, and observed me with that sympathetic and kindly interest which any well-bred doctor would esteem it his duty to exhibit. I became quite at ease, and answered all his questions fully and frankly. He felt my pulse in the customary way, and studied my face attentively. I described all my symptoms, and he listened with the utmost patience. When I had concluded, he leaned back in his chair and appeared to ponder deeply for some moments. Then he spoke.
"You know, of course, that I am not a doctor?"
"I know," I said; "Signer Cellini explained to me."
"Ah!" and Heliobas smiled. "Raffaello explained as much as he might; but not everything. I must tell you I have a simple pharmacopoeia of my own—it contains twelve remedies, and only twelve. In fact there me no more that are of any use to the human mechanism. All are made of the juice of plants, and six of them are electric. Raffaello tried you with one of them, did he not?"
As he put this question, I was aware of a keenly inquiring look sent from the eyes of my interrogator into mine.
"Yes," I answered frankly, "and it made me dream, and I dreamt of YOU."