  The next day when Armand Gervase went to call on the Princess Ziska he was refused admittance. The Nubian attendant who kept watch and ward at her gates, hearing the door-bell ring, contented himself with thrusting his ugly head through an open upper window and shouting— "Madame est sortie!" "Ou donc?" called Gervase in answer. "A la campagne—le desert—les pyramides!" returned the Nubian, at the same time banging the lattice to in order to prevent the possibility of any further conversation. And Gervase, standing in the street irresolutely for a moment, fancied he heard a peal of malicious laughter in the distance. "Beast!" he muttered, "I must try him with a money bribe next time I get hold of him. I wonder what I shall do with myself now?—haunted and brain-ridden as I am by this woman and her picture?" The hot sun glared in his eyes and made them ache,—the rough stones of the narrow street were scorching to his feet. He began to move slowly away with a curious faint sensation of giddiness and sickness upon him, when the sound of music floating from the direction of the Princess Ziska's palace brought him to a sudden standstill. It was a strange, wild melody, played on some instrument with seemingly muffled strings. A voice with a deep, throbbing thrill of sweetness in it began to sing: Oh, for the passionless peace of the Lotus-Lily! Oh, for the pure cold heart of the Lotus-Lily! When the song ceased, Gervase raised his eyes from the ground on which he had fixed them in a kind of brooding stupor, and stared at the burning blue of the sky as vaguely and wildly as a sick man in the delirium of fever. "God! What ails me!" he muttered, supporting himself with one hand against the black and crumbling wall near which he stood. "Why should that melody steal away my strength and make me think of things with which I have surely no connection! What tricks my imagination plays me in this city of the Orient—I might as well be hypnotized! What have I to do with dreams of war and triumph and rapine and murder, and what is the name of Ziska-Charmazel to me?" He shook himself with the action of a fine brute that has been stung by some teasing insect, and, mastering his emotions by an effort, walked away. But he was so absorbed in strange thoughts, that he stumbled up against Denzil Murray in a side street on the way to the Gezireh Palace Hotel without seeing him, and would have passed him altogether had not Denzil somewhat fiercely said: "Stop!" Gervase looked at him bewilderedly. "Why, Denzil, is it you? My dear fellow, forgive me my brusquerie! I believe I have got a stroke of the sun, or something of the sort; I assure you I hardly know what I am doing or where I am going!" "I believe it!" said Denzil, hoarsely. "You are as mad as I am—for love!" Gervase smiled; a slight incredulous smile. "You think so? I am not sure! If love makes a man as thoroughly unstrung and nervous as I am to-day, then love is a very bad illness." "It is the worst illness in the world," said Denzil, speaking hurriedly and wildly. "The most cruel and torturing! And there is no cure for it save death. My God, Gervase! You were my friend but yesterday! I never should have thought it possible to hate you!" "Yet you do hate me?" queried Gervase, still smiling a little. "Hate you? I could kill you! You have been with HER!" Quietly Gervase took his arm. "My good Denzil, you are mistaken! I confess to you frankly I should have been with HER—you mean the Princess Ziska, of course—had it been possible. But she has fled the city for the moment—at least, according to the corpse-like Nubian who acts as porter." "He lies!" exclaimed Denzil, hotly. "I saw her this morning." "I hope you improved your opportunity," said Gervase, imperturbably. A silence fell between them for some minutes; then Denzil spoke again. "Gervase, it is no use, I cannot stand this sort of thing. We must have it out. What does it all mean?" "It is difficult to explain, my dear boy," answered Gervase, half seriously, half mockingly. "It means, I presume, that we are both in love with the same woman, and that we both intend to try our chances with her. But, as I told you the other night, I do not see why we should quarrel about it. Your intentions towards the Princess are honorable—mine are dishonorable, and I shall make no secret of them. If you win her, I shall …" He paused, and there was a sudden look in his eyes which gave them a sombre darkness, darker than their own natural color. "You shall—what?" asked Denzil. "Do something desperate," replied Gervase. "What the something will be depends on the humor of the moment. A tiger balked of his prey is not an agreeable beast; a strong man deprived of the woman he passionately desires is a little less agreeable even than the tiger. But let us adopt the policy of laissez-faire. Nothing is decided; the fair one cares for neither of us; let us be friends until she makes her choice." "We cannot be friends," said Denzil, sternly. "Good! Let us be foes then, but courteous, even in our quarrel, dear boy. If we must kill each other, let us do it civilly. To fly at each other's throats would be purely barbaric. We owe a certain duty to civilization; things have progressed since the days of Araxes." Denzil stared at him gloomily. "Araxes is Dr. Dean's fad," he said. "I don't know anything about Egyptian mummies, and don't want to know. My matter is with the present, and not with the past." They had reached the hotel by this time, and turned into the gardens side by side. "You understand?" repeated Denzil. "We cannot be friends!" Gervase gave him a profoundly courteous salute, and the two separated. Later on in the afternoon, about an hour before dinner-time, Gervase, strolling on the terrace of the hotel alone, saw Helen Murray seated at a little distance under some trees, with a book in her hand which she was not reading. There were tears in her eyes, but as he approached her she furtively dashed them away and greeted him with a poor attempt at a smile. "You have a moment to spare me?" he asked, sitting down beside her. She bent her head in acquiescence. "I am a very unhappy man, Mademoiselle Helen," he began, looking at her with a certain compassionate tenderness as he spoke. "I want your sympathy, but I know I do not deserve it." Helen remained silent. A faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were veiled under the long lashes—she thought he could not see them. "You remember," he went on, "our pleasant times in Scotland? Ah, it is a restful place, your Highland home, with the beautiful purple hills rolling away in the distance, and the glorious moors covered with fragrant heather, and the gurgling of the river that runs between birch and fir and willow, making music all day long for those who have the ears to listen, and the hearts to understand the pretty love tune it sings! You know Frenchmen always have more or less sympathy with the Scotch—some old association, perhaps, with the romantic times of Mary Queen of Scots, when the light and changeful fancies of Chastelard and his brother poets and lutists made havoc in the hearts of many a Highland maiden. What is that bright drop on your hand, Helen?—are you crying?" He waited a moment, and his voice was softer and more tremulous. "Dear girl, I am not worthy of tears. I am not good enough for you." He gave her time to recover her momentary emotion and then went on, still softly and tenderly: "Listen, Helen. I want you to believe me and forgive me, if you can. I know—I remember those moonlight evenings in Scotland—holy and happy evenings, as sweet as flower-scented pages in a young girl's missal; yes, and I did not mean to play with you, Helen, or wound your gentle heart. I almost loved you!" He spoke the words passionately, and for a moment she raised her eyes and looked at him in something of fear as well as sorrow. "'Yes,' I said to my self, 'this woman, so true and pure and fair, is a bride for a king; and if I can win her—if!' Ah, there my musings stopped. But I came to Egypt chiefly to meet you again, knowing that you and your brother were in Cairo. How was I to know, how was I to guess that this horrible thing would happen?" Helen gazed at him wonderingly. "What horrible thing?" she asked, falteringly, the rich color coming and going on her face, and her heart beating violently as she put the question. His eyes flashed. "This," he answered. "The close and pernicious enthralment of a woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen! You do not understand—you will never understand! Here, in the very air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man's nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance it. And this woman,—this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy—she overcomes me in spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my life. I admit it—I confess it!" "You are speaking of the Princess Ziska?" asked Helen, tremblingly. "Of whom else should I speak?" he responded, dreamily. "There is no one like her; probably there never was anyone like her, except, perhaps, Ziska-Charmazel!" As the name passed his lips, he sprang hastily up and stood amazed, as though some sudden voice had called him. Helen Murray looked at him in alarm. "Oh, what is it?" she exclaimed. He forced a laugh. "Nothing—nothing—but a madness! I suppose it is all a part of my strange malady. Your brother is stricken with the same fever. Surely you know that?" "Indeed I do know it," Helen answered, "to my sorrow!" He regarded her intently. Her face in its pure outline and quiet sadness of expression touched him more than he cared to own even to himself. "My dear Helen," he said, with an effort at composure, "I have been talking wildly; you must forgive me! Don't think about me at all; I am not worth it! Denzil has taken it into his head to quarrel with me on account of the Princess Ziska, but I assure you I will not quarrel with him. He is infatuated, and so am I. The best thing for all of us to do would be to leave Egypt instantly; I feel that instinctively, only we cannot do it. Something holds us here. You will never persuade Denzil to go, and I—I cannot persuade myself to go. There is a clinging sweetness in the air for me; and there are vague suggestions, memories, dreams, histories—wonderful things which hold me spell-bound! I wish I could analyze them, recognize them, or understand them. But I cannot, and there, perhaps, is their secret charm. Only one thing grieves me, and that is, that I have, perhaps, unwittingly, in some thoughtless way, given you pain; is it so, Helen?" She rose quickly, and with a quiet dignity held out her hand. "No, Monsieur Gervase," she said, "it is not so. I am not one of those women who take every little idle word said by men in jest au grand serieux! You have always been a kind and courteous friend, and if you ever fancied you had a warmer feeling for me, as you say, I am sure you were mistaken. We often delude ourselves in these matters. I wish, for your sake, I could think the Princess Ziska worthy of the love she so readily inspires. But,—I cannot! My brother's infatuation for her is to me terrible. I feel it will break his heart,—and mine!" A little half sob caught her breath and interrupted her; she paused, but presently went on with an effort at calmness: "You talk of our leaving Egypt; how I wish that were possible! But I spoke to Denzil about it on the night of the ball, and he was furious with me for the mere suggestion. It seems like an evil fate." "It IS an evil fate," said Gervase gloomily. "Enfin, my dear Helen, we cannot escape from it,—at least, I cannot. But I never was intended for good things, not even for a lasting love. A lasting love I feel would bore me. You look amazed; you believe in lasting love? So do many sweet women. But do you know what symbol I, as an artist, would employ were I asked to give my idea of Love on my canvas?" Helen smiled sadly and shook her head. "I would paint a glowing flame," said Gervase dreamily. "A flame leaping up from the pit of hell to the height of heaven, springing in darkness, lost in light; and flying into the centre of that flame should be a white moth—a blind, soft, mad thing with beating, tremulous wings,—that should be Love! Whirled into the very heart of the ravening fire,—crushed, shrivelled out of existence in one wild, rushing rapture—that is what Love must be to me! One cannot prolong passion over fifty years, more or less, of commonplace routine, as marriage would have us do. The very notion is absurd. Love is like a choice wine of exquisite bouquet and intoxicating flavor; it is the most maddening draught in the world, but you cannot drink it every day. No, my dear Helen; I am not made for a quiet life,—nor for a long one, I fancy." His voice unconsciously sank into a melancholy tone, and for one moment Helen's composure nearly gave way. She loved him as true women love, with that sublime self-sacrifice which only desires the happiness of the thing beloved; yet a kind of insensate rage stirred for once in her gentle soul to think that the mere sight of a strange woman with dark eyes,—a woman whom no one knew anything about, and who was by some people deemed a mere adventuress,—should have so overwhelmed this man whose genius she had deemed superior to fleeting impressions. Controlling the tears that rose to her eyes and threatened to fall, she said gently, "Good-bye, Monsieur Gervase!" He started as from a reverie. "Good-bye, Helen! Some day you will think kindly of me again?" "I think kindly of you now," she answered tremulously; then, not trusting herself to say any more, she turned swiftly and left him. "The flame and the moth!" he mused, watching her slight figure till it had disappeared. "Yes, it is the only fitting symbol. Love must be always so. Sudden, impetuous, ungovernable, and then—the end! To stretch out the divine passion over life-long breakfasts and dinners! It would be intolerable to me. Lord Fulkeward could do that sort of thing; his chest is narrow, and his sentiments are as limited as his chest. He would duly kiss his wife every morning and evening, and he would not analyze the fact that no special thrill of joy stirred in him at the action. What should he do with thrills of joy—this poor Fulkeward? And yet it is likely he will marry Helen. Or will it be the Courtney animal,—the type of man whose one idea is 'to arise, kill, and eat?' "Ah, well!" and he sighed. "She is not for me, this maiden grace of womanhood. If I married her, I should make her miserable. I am made for passion, not for peace." He started as he heard a step behind him, and turning, saw Dr. Dean. "I have had a letter from the Princess Ziska," he said, without any preliminary. "She has gone to secures rooms at the Mena House Hotel, which is situated close to the Pyramids. She regrets she cannot enter into the idea of taking a trip up the Nile. She has no time, she says, as she is soon leaving Cairo. But she suggests that we should make up a party for the Mena House while she is staying there, as she can, so she tells me, make the Pyramids much more interesting for us by her intimate knowledge of them. Now, to me this is a very tempting offer, but I should not care to go alone." "The Murrays will go, I am sure," murmured Gervase lazily. "At any rate, Denzil will." The Doctor looked at him narrowly. "If Denzil goes, so will you go," he said. "Thus there are two already booked for company. And I fancy the Fulkewards might like the idea." "The Princess is leaving Cairo?" queried Gervase presently, as though it were an after thought. "So she informs me in her letter. The party which is to come off on Gervase was silent a moment. Then he said: "Have you told Denzil?" "Not yet." "Better do so then," and Gervase glanced up at the sky, now glowing red with a fiery sunset. "He wants to propose, you know." "Good God!" cried the Doctor, sharply, "If he proposes to that woman. …" "Why should he not?" demanded Gervase. "Is she not as ripe for love and fit for marriage as any other of her sex?" "Her sex!" echoed the Doctor grimly. "Her sex!—There!—for heaven's sake don't talk to me!—leave me alone! The Princess Ziska is like no woman living; she has none of the sentiments of a woman,—and the notion of Denzil's being such a fool as to think of proposing to her—Oh, leave me alone, I tell you! Let me worry this out!" And clapping his hat well down over his eyes, he began to walk away in a strange condition of excitement, which he evidently had some difficulty in suppressing. Suddenly, however, he turned, came back and tapped Gervase smartly on the chest. "YOU are the man for the Princess," he said impressively. "There is a madness in you which you call love for her; you are her fitting mate, not that poor boy, Denzil Murray. In certain men and women spirit leaps to spirit,—note responds to note—and if all the world were to interpose its trumpery bulk, nothing could prevent such tumultuous forces rushing together. Follow your destiny, Monsieur Gervase, but do not ruin another man's life on the way. Follow your destiny,—complete it,—you are bound to do so,—but in the havoc and wildness to come, for God's sake, let the innocent go free!" |
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