/Gervase/ stared at him, still dazzled and confused.
“Whom did you say? … the Princess Ziska? … No, I don’t know her
… Yet, stay! Yes, I think I have seen her … somewhere,--in Paris,
possibly. Will you introduce me?”
“I leave that duty to Mr. Denzil Murray,” said the Doctor, folding his
arms neatly behind his back … “He knows her better than I do.”
And smiling his little grim, cynical smile, he settled his academic
cap more firmly on his head and strolled off towards the ball-room.
Gervase stood irresolute, his eyes fixed on that wondrous golden
figure that floated before his eyes like an aerial vision. Denzil
Murray had gone forward to meet the Princess and was now talking to
her, his handsome face radiating with the admiration he made no
attempt to conceal. After a little pause Gervase moved towards him a
step or two, and caught part of the conversation.
“You look the very beau-ideal of an Egyptian Princess,” Murray was
saying. “Your costume is perfect.”
She laughed. Again that sweet, rare laughter! Gervase thrilled with
the pulsation of it,--it beat in his ears and smote his brain with a
strange echo of familiarity.
“Is it not?” she responded. “I am ‘historically correct,’ as your
friend Dr. Dean would say. My ornaments are genuine,--they all came
out of the same tomb.”
“I find one fault with your attire, Princess,” said one of the male
admirers who had entered with her; “part of your face is veiled. That
is a cruelty to us all!”
She waived the compliment aside with a light gesture.
“It was the fashion in ancient Egypt,” she said. “Love in those old
days was not what it is now,--one glance, one smile was sufficient to
set the soul on fire and draw another soul towards it to consume
together in the suddenly kindled flame! And women veiled their faces
in youth, lest they should be deemed too prodigal of their charms; and
in age they covered themselves still more closely, in order not to
affront the Sun-God’s fairness by their wrinkles.” She smiled, a
dazzling smile that drew Gervase yet a few steps closer unconsciously,
as though he were being magnetized. “But I am not bound to keep the
veil always up,” and as she spoke she loosened it and let it fall,
showing an exquisite face, fair as a lily, and of such perfect
loveliness that the men who were gathered round her seemed to lose
breath and speech at sight of it. “That pleases you better, Mr.
Murray?”
Denzil grew very pale. Bending down he murmured something to her in a
low tone. She raised her lovely brows with a little touch of surprise
that was half disdain, and looked at him straightly.
“You say very pretty things; but they do not always please me,” she
observed. “However, that is my fault, no doubt.”
And she began to move onwards, her Nubian page preceding her as
before. Gervase stood in her path and confronted her as she came.
“Introduce me,” he said in a commanding tone to Denzil.
Denzil looked at him, somewhat startled by the suppressed passion in
his voice.
“Certainly. Princess, permit me!” She paused, a figure of silent grace
and attention. “Allow me to present to you my friend, Armand Gervase,
the most famous artist in France--Gervase, the Princess Ziska.”
She raised her deep, dark eyes and fixed them on his face, and as he
looked boldly at her in a kind of audacious admiration, he felt again
that strange dizzying shock which had before thrilled him through and
through. There was something strangely familiar about her; the faint
odors that seemed exhaled from her garments,--the gleam of the
jewel-winged scarabei on her breast,--the weird light of the
emerald-studded serpent in her hair; and more, much more familiar than
these trifles, was the sound of her voice--dulcet, penetrating, grave
and haunting in its tone.
“At last we meet, Monsieur Armand Gervase!” she said slowly and with a
graceful inclination of her head. “But I cannot look upon you as a
stranger, for I have known you so long--in spirit!”
She smiled--a strange smile, dazzling yet enigmatical--and something
wild and voluptuous seemed to stir in Gervase’s pulses as he touched
the small hand, loaded with quaint Egyptian gems, which she graciously
extended towards him.
“I think I have known you, too!” he said. “Possibly in a dream,--a
dream of beauty never realized till now!”
His voice sank to an amorous whisper; but she said nothing in reply,
nor could her looks be construed into any expression of either
pleasure or offence. Yet through the heart of young Denzil Murray went
a sudden pang of jealousy, and for the first time in his life he
became conscious that even among men as well as women there may exist
what is called the “petty envy” of a possible rival, and the uneasy
desire to outshine such an one in all points of appearance, dress and
manner. His gaze rested broodingly on the tall, muscular form of
Gervase, and he noted the symmetry and supple grace of the man with an
irritation of which he was ashamed. He knew, despite his own
undeniably handsome personality, which was set off to such advantage
that night by the richness of the Florentine costume he had adopted,
that there was a certain fascination about Gervase which was inborn, a
trick of manner which made him seem picturesque at all times; and that
even when the great French artist had stayed with him in Scotland and
got himself up for the occasion in more or less baggy tweeds, people
were fond of remarking that the only man who ever succeeded in making
tweeds look artistic was Armand Gervase. And in the white Bedouin garb
he now wore he was seen at his best; a certain restless passion
betrayed in eyes and lips made him look the savage part he had
“dressed” for, and as he bent his head over the Princess Ziska’s hand
and kissed it with an odd mingling of flippancy and reverence, Denzil
suddenly began to think how curiously alike they were, these two!
Strong man and fair woman, both had many physical points in
common,--the same dark, level brows,--the same half wild, half tender
eyes,--the same sinuous grace of form,--the same peculiar lightness of
movement,--and yet both were different, while resembling each other.
It was not what is called a “family likeness” which existed between
them; it was the cast of countenance or “type” that exists between
races or tribes, and had young Murray not known his friend Gervase to
be a French Provençal and equally understood the Princess Ziska to be
of Russian origin, he would have declared them both natives of Egypt,
of the purest caste and highest breeding. He was so struck by this
idea that he might have spoken his thought aloud had he not heard
Gervase boldly arranging dance after dance with the Princess, and
apparently preparing to write no name but hers down the entire length
of his ball programme,--a piece of audacity which had the effect of
rousing Denzil to assert his own rights.
“You promised me the first waltz, Princess,” he said, his face
flushing as he spoke.
“Quite true! And you shall have it,” she replied, smiling. “Monsieur
Gervase will have the second. The music sounds very inviting; shall we
not go in?”
“We spoil the effect of your _entrée_ crowding about you like this,”
said Denzil, glancing somewhat sullenly at Gervase and the other men
surrounding her; “and, by the way, you have never told us what
character you represent to-night; some great queen of old time, no
doubt?”
“No, I lay no claim to sovereignty,” she answered; “I am for to-night
the living picture of a once famous and very improper person who bore
half my name, a dancer of old time, known as ‘Ziska-Charmazel,’ the
favorite of the harem of a great Egyptian warrior, described in
forgotten histories as ‘The Mighty Araxes.’”
She paused; her admirers, fascinated by the sound of her voice, were
all silent. She fixed her eyes upon Gervase; and addressing him only,
continued:
“Yes, I am ‘Charmazel,’” she said. “She was, as I tell you, an
‘improper’ person, or would be so considered by the good English
people. Because, you know, she was never married to Araxes!”
This explanation, given with the demurest _naïveté_, caused a laugh
among her listeners.
“That wouldn’t make her ‘improper’ in France,” said Gervase gayly.
“She would only seem more interesting.”
“Ah! Then modern France is like old Egypt?” she queried, still
smiling. “And Frenchmen can be found perhaps who are like Araxes in
the number of their loves and infidelities?”
“I should say my country is populated entirely with copies of him,”
replied Gervase, mirthfully. “Was he a very distinguished personage?”
“He was. Old legends say he was the greatest warrior of his time; as
you, Monsieur Gervase, are the greatest artist.”
Gervase bowed.
“You flatter me, fair Charmazel!” he said; then suddenly as the
strange name passed his lips he recoiled as if he had been stung, and
seemed for a moment dazed. The Princess turned her dark eyes on him
inquiringly.
“Something troubles you, Monsieur Gervase?” she asked.
His brows knitted in a perplexed frown.
“Nothing … the heat, … the air … a trifle, I assure you! Will
you not join the dancers? Denzil, the music calls you. When your waltz
with the Princess is ended I shall claim my turn. For the moment …
_au revoir_!”
He stood aside and let the little group pass him by: the Princess
Ziska moving with her floating, noiseless grace, Denzil Murray beside
her, the little Nubian boy waving the peacock-plumes in front of them
both, and all the other enslaved admirers of this singularly
attractive woman crowding together behind. He watched the little
_cortége_ with strained, dim sight, till just at the dividing portal
between the lounge and the ball-room the Princess turned and looked
back at him with a smile. Over all the intervening heads their eyes
met in one flash of mutual comprehension; then, as the fair face
vanished like a light absorbed into the lights beyond it, Gervase,
left alone, dropped heavily into a chair and stared vaguely at the
elaborate pattern of the thick carpet at his feet. Passing his hand
across his forehead he withdrew it, wet with drops of perspiration.
“What is wrong with me?” he muttered. “Am I sickening for a fever
before I have been forty-eight hours in Cairo? What fool’s notion is
this in my brain? Where have I seen her before? In Paris? St.
Petersburg? London? Charmazel! … Charmazel! … What has the name to
do with me? Ziska-Charmazel! It is like the name of a romance or a
gypsy tune. Bah! I must be dreaming! Her face, her eyes, are perfectly
familiar; where, where have I seen her and played the mad fool with
her before? Was she a model at one of the studios? Have I seen her by
chance thus in her days of poverty, and does her image recall itself
vividly now despite her changed surroundings? I know the very perfume
of her hair … it seems to creep into my blood … it intoxicates me … it
chokes me! …”
He sprang up with a fierce gesture, then after a minute’s pause sat
down again, and again stared at the floor.
The gay music from the ball-room danced towards him on the air in
sweet, broken echoes,--he heard nothing and saw nothing.
“My God!” he said at last, under his breath. “Can it be possible that
I love this woman?”