This document was signed "Casimir Heliobas," and bore a seal on which the impression seemed to consist of two Arabic or Sanskrit words, which I could not understand. I put it carefully away with its companion MS. under lock and key, and while I was yet pausing earnestly on its contents, Zara came into my room. She had finished her task in the studio, she said, and she now proposed a drive in the Bois as an agreeable way of passing the rest of the afternoon.
"I want to be as long as possible in your company," she added, with a caressing sweetness in her manner; "for now your friends have come to Paris, I expect you will soon be leaving us, so I must have as much of you as I can."
My heart sank at the thought of parting from her, and I looked wistfully at her lovely face. Leo had followed her in from the studio, and seemed still very melancholy.
"We shall always be good friends, Zara dearest," I said, "shall we not? Close, fond friends, like sisters?"
"Sisters are not always fond of each other," remarked Zara, half gaily. "And you know 'there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother'!"
"And what friend is that in YOUR case?" I asked, half jestingly, half curiously.
"Death!" she replied with a strange smile, in which there was both pathos and triumph.
I started at her unexpected reply, and a kind of foreboding chilled my blood. I endeavoured, however, to speak cheerfully as I said: "Why, of course, death sticks more closely to us than any friend or relative. But you look fitter to receive the embraces of life than of death, Zara."
"They are both one and the same thing," she answered; "or rather, the one leads to the other. But do not let us begin to philosophize. Put on your things and come. The carriage is waiting."
I readily obeyed her, and we enjoyed an exhilarating drive together. The rest of the day passed with us all very pleasantly and our conversation had principally to do with the progress of art and literature in many lands, and maintained itself equably on the level of mundane affairs. Among other things, we spoke of the Spanish violinist Sarasate, and I amused Heliobas by quoting to him some of the criticisms of the London daily papers on this great artist, such as, "He plays pieces which, though adapted to show his wonderful skill, are the veriest clap-trap;" "He lacks breadth and colour;" "A true type of the artist virtuoso," etc., etc.