consent to arrange themselves in any sort of finale.  So the days went on; for Colonel Everard and his wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and enjoyment.  For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the universal gaiety, they were laden with increasing despair and wretchedness; for I began to lose hope of ever recovering my once buoyant health and strength, and, what was even worse, I seemed to have utterly parted with all working ability.  I was young, and up to within a few months life had stretched brightly before me, with the prospect of a brilliant career.  And now what was I?  A wretched invalid—­a burden to myself and to others—­a broken spar flung with other fragments of ship wrecked lives on the great ocean of Time, there to be whirled away and forgotten.  But a rescue was approaching; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in my wildest fancies, I had never dreamed.

Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist, Raffaello Cellini by name.  His pictures were beginning to attract a great deal of notice, both in Paris and Rome:  not only for their faultless drawing, but for their wonderfully exquisite colouring.  So deep and warm and rich were the hues he transferred to his canvases, that others of his art, less fortunate in the management of the palette, declared he must have invented some foreign compound whereby he was enabled to deepen and brighten his colours for the time being; but that the effect was only temporary, and that his pictures, exposed to the air for some eight or ten years, would fade away rapidly, leaving only the traces of an indistinct blur.  Others, more generous, congratulated him on having discovered the secrets of the old masters.  In short, he was admired, condemned, envied, and flattered, all in a breath; while he himself, being of a singularly serene and unruffled disposition, worked away incessantly, caring little or nothing for the world’s praise or blame.

Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the Hotel de L——­, and my friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly.  He was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship, and so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to discuss our plans for future enjoyment.  These visits to Cellini’s studio, strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and calming effect upon my suffering nerves.  The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that “admired disorder” and mixed luxuriousness peculiar to artists, with its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its glimpses of white marble busts and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out from the studio and leading to the garden, where a fountain bubbled melodiously—­all this pleased me and gave me a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest.  Cellini himself had a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason.