The Dark Star

“Show me your palms,” said Nini, and drew Sengoun’s and Neeland’s hands across the table, holding them in both of hers.

“See,” she added, nudging Fifi with her shoulder, “both of them born under the Dark Star! It is war they shall live to see – war!”

“Under the Dark Star, Erlik,” repeated the other girl, looking closely into the two palms, “and there is war there!”

“And death?” inquired Sengoun gaily. “I don’t care, if I can lead a sotnia up Achi-Baba and twist the gullet of the Padisha before I say Fifi – Nini!”

The gipsies searched his palm with intent and brilliant gaze.

“Zut!” said Fifi. “Je ne vois rien que d’l’amour et la guerre aux dames!”

“T’en fais pas!” laughed Sengoun. “I ask no further favour of Fortune; I’ll manage my regiment myself. And, listen to me, Fifi,” he added with a frightful frown, “if the war you predict doesn’t arrive, I’ll come back and beat you as though you were married to a Turk!”

While they still explored his palm, whispering together at intervals, Sengoun caught the chorus of the air which the orchestra was playing, and sang it lustily and with intense pleasure to himself.

Neeland, unquiet to discover how much these casual strangers knew about his own and intimate affairs, had become silent and almost glum.

But the slight gloom which invaded him came from resentment toward those people who had followed him from Brookhollow to Paris, and who, in the very moment of victory, had snatched that satisfaction from him.

He thought of Kestner and of Breslau – of Scheherazade, and the terrible episode in her stateroom.

Except that he had seized the box in the Brookhollow house, there was nothing in his subsequent conduct on which he could plume himself. He could not congratulate himself on his wisdom; sheer luck had carried him through as far as the rue Soleil d’Or – mere chance, and that capricious fortune which sometimes convoys the stupid, fatuous, and astigmatic.

Then he thought of Rue Carew. And, in his bosom, an intense desire to distinguish himself began to burn.

If there were any way on earth to trace that accursed box–

He turned abruptly and looked at the two gipsies, who had relinquished Sangoun’s hand and who were still conversing together in low tones while Sangoun beat time on the jingling table top and sang joyously at the top of his baritone voice:

“Eh, zoum – zoum – zoum!
Boum – boum – boum!
Here’s to the Artillery
Gaily riding by!
Fetch me a distillery,
Let me drink it dry —
Fill me full of sillery!
Here’s to the artillery!
Zoum – zoum – zoum!
Boum – boum – boum!”

“Fifi!”

“M’sieu?”

“You’re so clever! Where is that Yellow Devil now?”

“Pouf!” giggled Fifi. “On its way to Berlin, pardie!”

“That’s easy to say. Tell me something else more expensive.”

Nini said, surprised:

“What we know is free to Prince Erlik’s friend. Did you think we sell to Russians?”

“I don’t know anything about you or where you get your information,” said Neeland. “I suppose you’re in the Secret Service of the Russian Government.”

“Mon ami, Nilan,” said Fifi, smiling, “we should feel lonely outside the Secret Service. Few in Europe are outside – few in the world, fewer in the half-world. As for us Tziganes, who belong to neither, the business of everybody becomes our secret to sell for a silver piece – but not to Russians in the moment of peril!.. Nor to their comrades… What do you desire to know, comrade?”

“Anything,” he said simply, “that might help me to regain what I have lost.”

“And what do you suppose!” exclaimed Fifi, opening her magnificent black eyes very wide. “Did you imagine that nobody was paying any attention to what happened in the rue Soleil d’Or this noon?”

Nini laughed.

“The word flew as fast as the robber’s taxicab. How many thousand secret friends to the Triple Entente do you suppose knew of it half an hour after it happened? From the Trocadero to Montparnasse, from the Point du Jour to Charenton, from the Bois to the Bièvre, the word flew. Every taxicab, omnibus, sapin, every bateau-mouche, every train that left any terminal was watched.

“Five embassies and legations were instantly under redoubled surveillance; hundreds of cafés, bars, restaurants, hôtels; all the theatres, gardens, cabarets, brasseries.

“Your pigs of Apaches are not neglected, va! But, to my idea, they got out of Paris before we watchers knew of the affair at all – in an automobile, perhaps – perhaps by rail. God knows,” said the girl, looking absently at the dancing which had begun again. “But if we ever lay our eyes on Minna Minti, we wear toys in our garters which will certainly persuade her to take a little stroll with us.”

After a silence, Neeland said:

“Is Minna Minti then so well known?”

“Not at the Opéra Comique,” replied Fifi with a shrug, “but since then.”

“An artiste, that woman!” added Nini. “Why deny it? It appears that she has twisted more than one red button out of a broadcloth coat.”

“She’ll get the Seraglio medal for this day’s work,” said Fifi.

“Or the croix-de-fer,” added Nini. “Ah, zut! She annoys me.”

“Did you ever hear of a place called the Café des Bulgars?” asked Neeland, carelessly.

“Yes.”

“What sort of place is it?”

“Like any other.”

“Quite respectable?”

“Perfectly,” said Nini, smiling. “One drinks good beer there.”

“Munich beer,” added Fifi.

“Then it is watched?” asked Neeland.