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.
As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs.Everard on one occasion, and hurrying to the most secluded part of the garden, in order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation which had suddenly seized me.

While thus pacing about in feverish restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back.