The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown,'"

quoted Cellini in earnest tones.

"You admire Keats?" I asked eagerly.

"More than any other poet that has lived," he replied. "His was the
most ethereal and delicate muse that ever consented to be tied down to
earth. But, mademoiselle, you do not wish to examine me as to my taste
in poetry. You have some other questions to put to me, have you not?"

For one instant I hesitated. Then I spoke out frankly, and answered:

"Yes, signor. What was there in that wine you gave me this morning?"

He met my searching gaze unflinchingly.

"A medicine," he said. "An excellent and perfectly simple remedy made
of the juice of plants, and absolutely harmless."

"But why," I demanded, "why did you give me this medicine? Was it not
wrong to take so much responsibility upon yourself?"

He smiled.

"I think not. If you are injured or offended, then I was wrong; but if,
on the contrary, your health and spirits are ever so little improved,
as I see they are, I deserve your thanks, mademoiselle."

And he waited with an air of satisfaction and expectancy. I was puzzled
and half-angry, yet I could not help acknowledging to myself that I
felt better and more cheerful than I had done for many months. I looked
up at the artist's dark, intelligent face, and said almost humbly:

"I DO thank you, signor. But surely you will tell me your reasons for
constituting yourself my physician without even asking my leave."

He laughed, and his eyes looked very friendly.

"Mademoiselle, I am one of those strangely constituted beings who
cannot bear to see any innocent thing suffer. It matters not whether it
be a worm in the dust, a butterfly in the air, a bird, a flower, or a
human creature. The first time I saw you I knew that your state of
health precluded you from the enjoyment of life natural to your sex and
age. I also perceived that the physicians had been at work upon you
trying to probe into the causes of your ailment, and that they had
signally failed. Physicians, mademoiselle, are very clever and
estimable men, and there are a few things which come within the limit
of their treatment; but there are also other things which baffle their
utmost profundity of knowledge. One of these is that wondrous piece of
human machinery, the nervous system; that intricate and delicate
network of fine threads--electric wires on which run the messages of