# Ziska: The Problem of a Wicked Soul/Chapter 2

Chapter II.
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 atten​tion. “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 ar​ranging 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?”