Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 414
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“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 cortege with strained, dim sight, till just at the dividing portal between the lounge and the ballroom 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?”
CHAPTER III.
Within the ball-room the tide of gayety was rising to its height. It may be a very trivial matter, yet it is certain that fancy dress gives a peculiar charm, freedom, and brightness to festivities of the kind; and men who in the ordinary mournful black evening-suit would be taciturn of speech and conventional in bearing, throw off their customary reserve when they find themselves in the brilliant and becoming attire of some picturesque period when dress was an art as well as a fashion; and not only do they look their best, but they somehow manage to put on “manner” with costume, and to become courteous, witty, and graceful to a degree that sometimes causes their own relatives to wonder at them and speculate as to why they have grown so suddenly interesting. Few have read Sartor Resartus with either comprehension or profit, and are therefore unaware, as Teufelsdrockh was, that “Society is founded upon Cloth” — i.e. that man does adapt his manners very much to suit his clothes; and that as the costume of the days of Louis Quinze or Louis Seize inspired graceful deportment and studied courtesy to women, so does the costume of our nineteenth century inspire brusque demeanor and curt forms of speech, which, however sincere, are not flattering to the fair sex.
More love-making goes on at a fancy-dress ball than at an ordinary one; and numerous were the couples that strolled through the corridors and along the terraces of the Gezireh Palace Hotel when, after the first dozen dances were ended, it was discovered that one of the most glorious of full moons had risen over the turrets and minarets of Cairo, illumining every visible object with as clear a lustre as that of day. Then it was that warriors and nobles of mediaeval days were seen strolling with mythological goddesses and out-of-date peasants of Italy and Spain; then audacious “toreadors” were perceived whispering in the ears of crowned queens, and clowns were caught lingering amorously by the side of impossible flower-girls of all nations. Then it was that Sir Chetwynd Lyle, with his paunch discreetly restrained within the limits of a Windsor uniform which had been made for him some two or three years since, paced up and down complacently in the moonlight, watching his two “girls,” Muriel and Dolly, doing business with certain “eligibles”; then it was that Lady Fulkeward, fearfully and wonderfully got up as the “Duchess of Gainsborough” sidled to and fro, flirted with this man, flouted that, giggled, shrugged her shoulders, waved her fan, and comported herself altogether as if she were a hoyden of seventeen just let loose from school for the holidays. And then the worthy Dr. Maxwell Dean, somewhat exhausted by vigorous capering in the “Lancers,” strolled forth to inhale the air, fanning himself with his cap as he walked, and listening keenly to every chance word or sentence he could hear, whether it concerned himself or not. He had peculiar theories, and one of them was, as he would tell you, that if you overheard a remark apparently not intended for you, you were to make yourself quite easy, as it was “a point of predestination” that you should at that particular moment, consciously or unconsciously, play the eavesdropper. The reason of it would, he always averred, be explained to you later on in your career. The well-known saying “listeners never hear any good of themselves” was, he declared, a most ridiculous aphorism. “You overhear persons talking and you listen. Very well. It may chance that you hear yourself abused. What then? Nothing can be so good for you as such abuse; the instruction given is twofold; it warns you against foes whom you have perhaps considered friends, and it tones down any overweening conceit you may have had concerning your own importance or ability. Listen to everything if you are wise — I always do. I am an old and practised listener. And I have never listened in vain. All the information I have gained through listening, though apparently at first disconnected and unclassified, has fitted into my work like the stray pieces of a puzzle, and has proved eminently useful. Wherever I am I always keep my ears well open.”
With such views as he thus entertained, life was always enormously interesting to Dr. Dean — he found nothing tiresome, not even the conversation of the type known as Noodle. The Noodle was as curious a specimen of nature to him as the emu or the crocodile. And as he turned up his intellectual little physiognomy to the deep, warm Egyptian sky and inhaled the air sniffingly, as though it were a monster scent-bottle just uncorked for his special gratification, he smiled as he observed Muriel Chetwynd Lyle standing entirely alone at the end of the terrace, attired as a “Boulogne fish-wife,” and looking daggers after the hastily-retreating figure of a “White Hussar,” — no other than Ross Courtney.
“How extremely droll a ‘Boulogne fish-wife’ looks in Egypt,” commented the Doctor to his inward self. “Remarkable! The incongruity is peculiarly typical of the Chetwynd Lyles. The costume of the young woman is like the knighthood of her father, — droll, droll, very droll!” Aloud he said— “Why are you not dancing, Miss Muriel?”
“Oh, I don’t know — I’m tired,” she said, petulantly. “Besides, all the men are after that Ziska woman, — they seem to have lost their heads about her!”
“Ah!” and Dr. Dean rubbed his hands. “Yes — possibly! Well, she is certainly very beautiful.”
“I cannot see it!” and Muriel Chetwynd Lyle flushed with the inward rage which could not be spoken. “It’s the way she dresses more than her looks. Nobody knows who she is — but they do not seem to care about that. They are all raving like lunatics over her, and that man — that artist who arrived here to-day, Armand Gervase, — seems the maddest of the lot. Haven’t you noticed how often he has danced with her?”
“I couldn’t help noticing that,” said the Doctor, emphatically, “for I have never seen anything more exquisite than the way they waltz together. Physically, they seem made for one another.”
Muriel laughed disdainfully.
“You had better tell Mr. Denzil Murray that; he is in a bad enough humor now, and that remark of yours wouldn’t improve it, I can tell you!”
She broke off abruptly, as a slim, fair girl, dressed as a Greek vestal in white, with a chaplet of silver myrtle-leaves round her hair, suddenly approached and touched Dr. Dean on the arm.
“Can I speak to you a moment?” she asked.
“My dear Miss Murray! Of course!” and the Doctor turned to her at once.
“What is it?”
She paced with him a few steps in silence, while Muriel Chetwynd Lyle moved languidly away from the terrace and re-entered the ball-room.
“What is it?” repeated Dr. Dean. “You seem distressed; come, tell me all about it!”
Helen Murray lifted her eyes — the soft, violet-gray eyes that Lord Fulkeward had said he admired — suffused with tears, and fixed them on the old man’s face.
“I wish,” she said— “I wish we had never come to Egypt! I feel as if some great misfortune were going to happen to us; I do, indeed! Oh, Dr. Dean, have you watched my brother this evening?”
“I have,” he replied, and then was silent.
“And what do you think?” she asked anxiously. “How can you account for his strangeness — his roughness — even to me?”
And the tears brimmed over and fell, despite her efforts to restrain them. Dr. Dean stopped in his walk and took her two hands in his own.
“My dear Helen, it’s no use worrying yourself like this,” he said. “Nothing can stop the progress of the Inevitable. I have watched Denzil, I have watched the new arrival, Armand Gervase, I have watched the mysterious Ziska, and I have watched you! Well, what is the result? The Inevitable, — simply the unconquerable Inevitable. Denzil is in love, Gervase is in love, everybody is in love, except me and one other! It is a whole network of mischief, and I am the unhappy fly that has unconsciously fallen into the very middle of it. But the spider, my dear, — the spider who wove the web in the first instance, — is the Princess Ziska, and she is NOT in love! She is the other one. She is not in love with anybody any more than I am. She’s got something else on her mind — I don’t know what it is exactly, but it isn’t love. Excluding her and myself, the whole hotel is in love — YOU are in love!”
Helen withdrew her hands from his grasp and a deep flush reddened her fair face.
“I!” she stammered— “Dr. Dean, you are mistaken. …”
“Dr. Dean was never mistaken on love-matters in his life,” said that self-satisfied sage complacently. “Now, my dear, don’t be offended. I have known both you and your brother ever since you were left little orphan children together; if I cannot speak plainly to you, who can? You are in love, little Helen — and very unwisely, too — with the man Gervase. I have heard of him often, but I never saw him before to-night. And I don’t approve of him.”
Helen grew as pale as she had been rosy, and her face as the moonlight fell upon it was very sorrowful.
“He stayed with us in Scotland two summers ago,” she said softly. “He was very agreeable…”
“Ha! No doubt! He made a sort of love to you then, I suppose. I can imagine him doing it very well! There is a nice romantic glen near your house — just where the river runs, and where I caught a fifteen-pound salmon some five years ago. Ha! Catching salmon is healthy work; much better than falling in love. No, no, Helen! Gervase is not good enough for you; you want a far better man. Has he spoken to you to-night?”
“Oh, yes! And he has danced with me.”
“Ha! How often?”
“Once.”
“And how many times with the Princess Ziska?”
Helen’s fair head drooped, and she answered nothing. All at once the little Doctor’s hand closed on her arm with a soft yet firm grip.
“Look!” he whispered.
She raised her eyes and saw two figures step out on the terrace and stand in the full moonlight, — the white Bedouin dress of the one and the glittering golden robe of the other made them easily recognizable, — they were Gervase and the Princess Ziska. Helen gave a faint, quick sigh.
“Let us go in,” she said.
“Nonsense! Why should we go in? On the contrary, let us join them.”
“Oh, no!” and Helen shrank visibly at the very idea. “I cannot; do not ask me! I have tried — you know I have tried — to like the Princess; but something in her — I don’t know what it is — repels me. To speak truthfully, I think I am afraid of her.”
“Afraid! Pooh! Why should you be afraid? It is true one doesn’t often see a woman with the eyes of a vampire-bat; but there is nothing to be frightened about. I have dissected the eyes of a vampire-bat — very interesting work, very. The Princess has them — only, of course, hers are larger and finer; but there is exactly the same expression in them. I am fond of study, you know; I am studying her. What! Are you determined to run away?”
“I am engaged for this dance to Mr. Courtney,” said Helen, nervously.
“Well, well! We’ll resume our conversation another time,” and Dr. Dean took her hand and patted it pleasantly. “Don’t fret yourself about Denzil; he’ll be all right. And take my advice: don’t marry a Bedouin chief; marry an honest, straightforward, tender-hearted Englishman who’ll take care of you, not a nondescript savage who’ll desert you!”
And with a humorous and kindly smile, Dr. Dean moved off to join the two motionless and picturesque figures that stood side by side looking at the moon, while Helen, like a frightened bird suddenly released, fled precipitately back to the ball-room, where Ross Courtney was already searching for her as his partner in the next waltz.
“Upon my word,” mused the Doctor, “this is a very pretty kettle of fish! The Gezireh Palace Hotel is not a hotel at all, it seems to me; it is a lunatic asylum. What with Lady Fulkeward getting herself up as twenty at the age of sixty; and Muriel and Dolly Chetwynd Lyle man-hunting with more ferocity than sportsmen hunt tigers; Helen in love, Denzil in love, Gervase in love — dear me! dear me! What a list of subjects for a student’s consideration! And the Princess Ziska …”
He broke off his meditations abruptly, vaguely impressed by the strange solemnity of the night. An equal solemnity seemed to surround the two figures to which he now drew nigh, and as the Princess Ziska turned her eyes upon him as he came, he was, to his own vexation, aware that something indefinable disturbed his usual equanimity and gave him an unpleasant thrill.
“You are enjoying a moonlight stroll, Doctor?” she inquired.
Her veil was now cast aside in a careless fold of soft drapery over her shoulders, and her face in its ethereal delicacy of feature and brilliant coloring looked almost too beautiful to be human. Dr. Dean did not reply for a moment; he was thinking what a singular resemblance there was between Armand Gervase and one of the figures on a certain Egyptian fresco in the British Museum.
“Enjoying — er — er — a what? — a moonlight stroll? Exactly — er — yes! Pardon me, Princess, my mind often wanders, and I am afraid I am getting a little deaf as well. Yes, I find the night singularly conducive to meditation; one cannot be in a land like this under a sky like this” — and he pointed to the shining heaven— “without recalling the great histories of the past.”
“I daresay they were very much like the histories of the present,” said
Gervase smiling.
“I should doubt that. History is what man makes it; and the character of man in the early days of civilization was, I think, more forceful, more earnest, more strong of purpose, more bent on great achievements.”
“The principal achievement and glory being to kill as many of one’s fellow-creatures as possible!” laughed Gervase— “Like the famous warrior, Araxes, of whom the Princess has just been telling me!”
“Araxes was great, but now Araxes is a forgotten hero,” said the Princess slowly, each accent of her dulcet voice chiming on the ear like the stroke of a small silver bell. “None of the modern discoverers know anything about him yet. They have not even found his tomb; but he was buried in the Pyramids with all the honors of a king. No doubt your clever men will excavate him some day.”
“I think the Pyramids have been very thoroughly explored,” said Dr.
Dean. “Nothing of any importance remains in them now.”
The Princess arched her lovely eyebrows.
“No? Ah! I daresay you know them better than I do!” and she laughed, a laugh which was not mirthful so much as scornful.
“I am very much interested in Araxes,” said Gervase then, “partly, I suppose, because he is as yet in the happy condition of being an interred mummy. Nobody has dug him up, unwound his cerements, or photographed him, and his ornaments have not been stolen. And in the second place I am interested in him because it appears he was in love with the famous dancer of his day whom the Princess represents to-night, — Charmazel. I wish I had heard the story before I came to Cairo; I would have got myself up as Araxes in person to-night.”
“In order to play the lover of Charmazel?” queried the Doctor.
“Exactly!” replied Gervase with flashing eyes; “I daresay I could have acted the part.”
“I should imagine you could act any part,” replied the Doctor, blandly.
“The role of love-making comes easily to most men.”
The Princess looked at him as he spoke and smiled. The jewelled scarab, set as a brooch on her bosom, flashed luridly in the moon, and in her black eyes there was a similar lurid gleam.
“Come and talk to me,” she said, laying her hand on his arm; “I am tired, and the conversation of one’s ball-room partners is very banal. Monsieur Gervase would like me to dance all night, I imagine; but I am too lazy. I leave such energy to Lady Fulkeward and to all the English misses and madams. I love indolence.”
