Ziska (Gothic Classic). Marie Corelli

moved him. Dr. Maxwell Dean took off his academic cap and examined its interior as though he considered it remarkable.

      "Yes," he said slowly; "I have thought the same thing of her myself—sometimes."

      Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the military band of the evening, which now crossed the "lounge," each man carrying his instrument with him; and these were followed by several groups of people in fancy dress, all ready and eager for the ball. Pierrots and Pierrettes, monks in drooping cowls, flower-girls, water-carriers, symbolic figures of "Night" and "Morning," mingled with the counterfeit presentments of dead-and-gone kings and queens, began to flock together, laughing and talking on their way to the ball-room; and presently among them came a man whose superior height and build, combined with his eminently picturesque, half-savage type of beauty, caused every one to turn and watch him as he passed, and murmur whispering comments on the various qualities wherein he differed from themselves. He was attired for the occasion as a Bedouin chief, and his fierce black eyes, and close-curling, dark hair, combined with the natural olive tint of his complexion, were well set off by the snowy folds of his turban and the whiteness of his entire costume, which was unrelieved by any color save at the waist, where a gleam of scarlet was shown in the sash which helped to fasten a murderous-looking dagger and other "correct" weapons of attack to his belt. He entered the hall with a swift and singularly light step, and made straight for Denzil Murray.

      "Ah! here you are!" he said, speaking English with a slight foreign accent, which was more agreeable to the ear than otherwise. "But, my excellent boy, what magnificence! A Medici costume! Never say to me that you are not vain; you are as conscious of your good looks as any pretty woman. Behold me, how simple and unobtrusive I am!"

      He laughed, and Murray sprang up from the chair where he had been despondently reclining.

      "Oh, come, I like that!" he exclaimed. "Simple and unobtrusive! Why everybody is staring at you now as if you had dropped from the moon! You cannot be Armand Gervase and simple and unobtrusive at the same time!"

      "Why not?" demanded Gervase, lightly. "Fame is capricious, and her trumpet is not loud enough to be heard all over the world at once. The venerable proprietor of the dirty bazaar where I managed to purchase these charming articles of Bedouin costume had never heard of me in his life. Miserable man! He does not know what he has missed!"

      Here his flashing black eyes lit suddenly on Dr. Dean, who was "studying" him in the same sort of pertinacious way in which that learned little man studied everything.

      "A friend of yours, Denzil?" he inquired.

      "Yes," responded Murray readily; "a very great friend—Dr. Maxwell Dean. Dr. Dean, let me introduce to you Armand Gervase; I need not explain him further!"

      "You need not, indeed!" said the doctor, with a ceremonious bow. "The name is one of universal celebrity."

      "It is not always an advantage—this universal celebrity," replied

       Gervase. "Nor is it true that any celebrity is actually universal.

       Perhaps the only living person that is universally known, by name at

       least, is Zola. Mankind are at one in their appreciation of vice."

      "I cannot altogether agree with you there," said Dr. Dean slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on the artist's bold, proud features with singular curiosity. "The French Academy, I presume, are individually as appreciative of human weaknesses as most men; but taken collectively, some spirit higher and stronger than their own keeps them unanimous in their rejection of the notorious Realist who sacrifices all the canons of art and beauty to the discussion of topics unmentionable in decent society."

      Gervase laughed idly.

      "Oh, he will get in some day, you may be sure," he answered. "There is no spirit higher and stronger than the spirit of naturalism in man; and in time, when a few prejudices have died away and mawkish sentiment has been worn threadbare, Zola will be enrolled as the first of the French Academicians, with even more honors than if he had succeeded in the beginning. That is the way of all those 'select' bodies. As Napoleon said, 'Le monde vient a celui qui sait attendre.'"

      The little Doctor's countenance now showed the most lively and eager interest.

      "You quite believe that, Monsieur Gervase? You are entirely sure of what you said just now?"

      "What did I say? I forget!" smiled Gervase, lighting a cigarette and beginning to smoke it leisurely.

      "You said, 'There is no spirit higher or stronger than the spirit of naturalism in man.' Are you positive on this point?"

      "Why, of course! Most entirely positive!" And the great painter looked amused as he gave the reply. "Naturalism is Nature, or the things appertaining to Nature, and there is nothing higher or stronger than Nature everywhere and anywhere."

      "How about God?" inquired Dr. Dean with a curious air, as if he were propounding a remarkable conundrum.

      "God!" Gervase laughed loudly. "Pardon! Are you a clergyman?"

      "By no means!" and the Doctor gave a little bow and deprecating smile. "I am not in any way connected with the Church. I am a doctor of laws and literature—a humble student of philosophy and science generally … "

      "Philosophy! Science!" interrupted Gervase. "And you ask about God!

       Parbleu! Science and philosophy have progressed beyond Him!"

      "Exactly!" and Dr. Dean rubbed his hands together pleasantly. "That is your opinion? Yes, I thought so! Science and philosophy, to put it comprehensively, have beaten poor God on His own ground! Ha! ha! ha! Very good—very good! And humorous as well! Ha! ha!"

      And a very droll appearance just then had this "humble student of philosophy and science generally," for he bent himself to and fro with laughter, and his small eyes almost disappeared behind his shelving brows in the excess of his mirth. And two crosslines formed themselves near his thin mouth—such lines as are carven on the ancient Greek masks which indicate satire.

      Denzil Murray flushed uncomfortably.

      "Gervase doesn't believe in anything but Art," he said, as though half apologizing for his friend: "Art is the sole object of his existence; I don't believe he ever has time to think about anything else."

      "Of what else should I think, mon ami?" exclaimed Gervase mirthfully. "Of life? It is all Art to me; and by Art I mean the idealization and transfiguration of Nature."

      "Oh. if you do that sort of thing you are a romancist," interposed Dr. Dean emphatically. "Nature neither idealizes nor transfigures itself; it is simply Nature and no more. Matter uncontrolled by Spirit is anything but ideal."

      "Precisely," answered Gervase quickly and with some warmth; "but my spirit idealizes it—my imagination sees beyond it—my soul grasps it."

      "Oh, you have a soul?" exclaimed Dr. Dean, beginning to laugh again.

       "Now, how did you find that out?"

      Gervase looked at him in a sudden surprise.

      "Every man has an inward self, naturally," he said. "We call it 'soul' as a figure of speech; it is really temperament merely."

      "Oh, it is merely temperament? Then you don't think it is likely to outlive you, this soul—to take new phases upon itself and go on existing, an immortal being, when your body is in a far worse condition (because less carefully preserved) than an Egyptian mummy?"

      "Certainly not!" and Gervase flung away the end of his finished cigarette. "The immortality of the soul is quite an exploded theory. It was always a ridiculous one. We have quite enough to vex us in our present life, and why men ever set about inventing another is more than I am able to understand. It was a most foolish and barbaric superstition."

      The gay sound of music now floated towards them from the ball-room—the strains of a graceful, joyous, half-commanding, half-pleading waltz came rhythmically beating on the air like the measured movement of wings—and Denzil Murray, beginning to grow restless, walked to and fro, his eyes watching every figure that