As Zara and I went upstairs together, we were followed by Leo—­a most unusual circumstance, as that faithful animal was generally in attendance on his master.  Now, however, he seemed to have something oppressive on his mind, for he kept close to Zara, and his big brown eyes, whenever he raised them to her face, were full of intense melancholy.  His tail drooped in a forlorn way, and all the vivacity of his nature seemed to have gone out of him.

“Leo does not seem well,” I said, patting the dog’s beautiful silky coat, an attention to which he responded by a heavy sigh and a wistful gaze approaching to tears.  Zara looked at him.

“Poor Leo!” she murmured caressingly.  “Perhaps he feels lonely.  Do you want to come with your mistress to-day, old boy?  So you shall.  Come along—­cheer up, Leo!”

And, nodding to me, she passed into her studio, the dog following her.  I turned into my own apartment, and then bethought myself of the newspaper Mrs. Everard had thrust into my pocket.  It was a Roman journal, and the passage marked for my perusal ran as follows: 

“The picture of the Improvisatrice, painted by our countryman Signor Raffaello Cellini, has been purchased by Prince N——­for the sum of forty thousand francs.  The Prince generously permits it to remain on view for a few days longer, so that those who have not yet enjoyed its attraction, have still time to behold one of the most wonderful pictures of the age.  The colouring yet remains a marvel to both students and connoisseurs, and the life-like appearance of the girl’s figure, robed in its clinging white draperies ornamented with lilies of the valley, is so strong, that one imagines she will step out of the canvas and confront the bystanders.  Signor Cellini must now be undoubtedly acknowledged as one of the greatest geniuses of modern times.”

I could see no reason, as I perused this, to be sure that I had served as the model for this successful work of art, unless the white dress and the lilies of the valley, which I had certainly worn at Cannes, were sufficient authority for forming such a conclusion.  Still I felt quite a curiosity about the picture—­the more so as I could foresee no possible chance of my ever beholding it.  I certainly should not go to Rome on purpose, and in a few days it would be in the possession of Prince N——­, a personage whom in all probability I should never know.  I put the newspaper carefully by, and then turned my mind to the consideration of quite another subject—­namely, the contents of my parchment documents.  The first one I opened was that containing the private instructions of Heliobas to myself for the preservation of my own health, and the cultivation of the electric force within me.  These were so exceedingly simple, and yet so wonderful in their simplicity, that I was surprised.  They were based upon the plainest and most reasonable common-sense arguments—­easy enough for a child to understand.  Having promised