The dawn began to peer faintly through the chapel windows—­the dawn of a misty, chilly morning.  The storm of the past night had left a sting in the air, and the rain still fell, though gently.  The wind had almost entirely sunk into silence.  I re-arranged the flowers that were strewn on Zara’s corpse, taking away all those that had slightly faded.  The orange-blossom was almost dead, but I left that where it was—­where the living Zara had herself placed it.  As I performed this slight service, I thought, half mournfully, half gladly—­

  “Yes, Heaven is thine, but this
   Is a world of sweets and sours—­
   Our flowers are merely flowers;
   And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
   Is the sunshine of ours.”

Prince Ivan at last roused himself as from a deep and melancholy reverie, and, addressing himself to Heliobas, said softly: 

“I will intrude no longer on your privacy, Casimir.  Farewell!  I shall leave Paris to-night.”

For all answer Heliobas beckoned him and me also out of the chapel.  As soon as its doors closed behind us, and we stood in the centre hall, he spoke with affectionate and grave earnestness: 

“Ivan, something tells me that you and I shall not meet again for many years, if ever.  Therefore, when you say ‘farewell,’ the word falls upon my ears with double meaning.  We are friends—­our friendship is sanctified by the dead presence of one whom we both loved, in different ways; therefore you will take in good part what I now say to you.  You know, you cannot disguise from yourself that the science I study is fraught with terrible truth and marvellous discoveries; the theories I deduce from it you disbelieve, because you are nearly a materialist.  I say nearly—­not quite.  That ’not quite’ makes me love you, Ivan:  I would save the small bright spark that flickers within you from both escape and extinction.  But I cannot—­at least, not as yet.  Still, in order that you may know that there is a power in me higher than ordinary human reason, before you go from me to-night hear my prophecy of your career.  The world waits for you, Ivan—­the world, all agape and glittering with a thousand sparkling toys; it waits greedy for your presence, ready to fawn upon you for a smile, willing to cringe to you for a nod of approval.  And why?  Because wealth is yours—­vast, illimitable wealth.  Aye—­you need not start or look incredulous—­you will find it as I say.  You, whose fortune up to now has barely reached a poor four thousand per annum—­you are at this moment the possessor of millions.  Only last night a relative of yours, whose name you scarcely know, expired, leaving all his hoarded treasures to you.  Before the close of this present day, on whose threshold we now stand, you will have the news.  When you receive it remember me, and acknowledge that at least for once I knew and spoke the truth.  Follow the broad road, Ivan, laid out before you—­a road wide enough not only for you to walk in, but