hildren, and from the tone of her letters to me, I fancy she would
part with one at least of her valuable necklaces to have a small pair
of chubby arms round her neck, and a soft little head nestling against
her bosom.

Raffaello Cellini still lives and works; his paintings are among the
marvels of modern Italy for their richness and warmth of colour--colour
which, in spite of his envious detractors, is destined to last through
ages. He is not very rich, for he is one of those who give away their
substance to the poor and the distressed; but where he is known he is
universally beloved. None of his pictures have yet been exhibited in
England, and he is in no hurry to call upon the London critics for
their judgment. He has been asked several times to sell his large
picture, "Lords of our Life and Death," but he will not. I have never
met him since our intercourse at Cannes, but I hear of him frequently
through Heliobas, who has recently forwarded me a proof engraving of
the picture "L'Improvisatrice," for which I sat as model. It is a
beautiful work of art, but that it is like ME I am not vain enough to
admit. I keep it, not as a portrait of myself, but as a souvenir of the
man through whose introduction I gained the best friend I have.

News of Prince Ivan Petroffsky reaches me frequently. He is possessor
of the immense wealth foretold by Heliobas; the eyes of Society
greedily follows his movements; his name figures conspicuously in the
"Fashionable Intelligence;" and the magnificence of his recent marriage
festivities was for some time the talk of the Continent. He has married
the only daughter of a French Duke--a lovely creature, as soulless and
heartless as a dressmaker's stuffed model; but she carries his jewels
well on her white bosom, and receives his guests with as much dignity
as a well-trained major-domo. These qualities suffice to satisfy her
husband at present; how long his satisfaction will last is another
matter. He has not quite forgotten Zara; for on every recurring Jour
des Morts, or Feast of the Dead, he sends a garland or cross of flowers
to the simple grave in Pere-la-Chaise. Heliobas watches his career with
untiring vigilance; nor can I myself avoid taking a certain interest in
the progress of his fate. At the moment I write he is one of the most
envied and popular noblemen in all the Royal Courts of Europe; and no
one thinks of asking him whether he is happy. He MUST be happy, says
the world; he has