The Dark Star

“Nothing,” he said gaily, “thanks to Miss Dumont–”

“To whom?” interrupted the Princess sharply.

“To Miss Dumont. We got into a silly place where it began to look as though we’d get our heads knocked off, Sengoun and I. I’m really quite serious, Princess. If it hadn’t been for Miss Dumont – ” he shrugged; “ – and that is twice she has saved my idiotic head for me,” he added cheerfully.

The Princess Naïa’s dark eyes reverted to Ilse Dumont, and the pallid girl met them steadily enough. There was no supplication in her own eyes, no shrinking, only the hopeless tranquillity that looks Destiny in the face – the gaze riveted unflinchingly upon the descending blow.

“What are you doing in Paris at such a time as this?” said the Princess.

The girl’s white lips parted stiffly:

“Do you need to ask?”

For a full minute the Princess bent a menacing gaze on her in silence; then:

“What do you expect from me?” she demanded in a low voice. And, stepping nearer: “What have you to expect from anyone in France on such a day as this?”

Ilse Dumont did not answer. After a moment she dropped her head and fumbled with the rags of her bodice, as though trying to cover the delicately rounded shoulders. A shaft of sunlight, reflected from the obelisk to the fountain, played in golden ripples across her hair.

Neeland looked at the Princess Naïa:

“What you do is none of my business,” he said pleasantly, “but – ” he smiled at her and stepped back beside Ilse Dumont, and passed his arm through hers: “I’m a grateful beast,” he added lightly, “and if I’ve nine lives to lose, perhaps Miss Dumont will save seven more of them before I’m entirely done for.”

The girl gently disengaged his arm.

“You’ll only get yourself into serious trouble,” she murmured, “and you can’t help me, dear Neeland.”

The Princess Naïa, flushed and exasperated, bit her lip.

“James,” she said, “you are behaving absurdly. That woman has nothing to fear from me now, and she ought to know it!” And, as Ilse lifted her head and stared at her: “Yes, you ought to know it!” she repeated. “Your work is ended. It ended today at sunrise. And so did mine. War is here. There is nothing further for you to do; nothing for me. The end of everything is beginning. What would your death or mine signify now, when the dawn of such a day as this is the death warrant for millions? What do we count for now, Mademoiselle Minna Minti?”

“Do you not mean to give me up, madame?”

“Give you up? No. I mean to get you out of Paris if I can. Give me your cat, mademoiselle. Please help her, James–”

“You – offer me your limousine?” stammered Ilse.

“Give that cat to me. Of course I do! Do you suppose I mean to leave you in rags with your cat on the pavement here?” And, to Neeland: “Where is Alak?”

“Gone home as fit as a fiddle. Am I to receive the hospitality of your limousine also, dear lady? Look at the state I’m in to travel with two ladies!”

The Princess Naïa’s dark eyes glimmered; she tucked the cat comfortably against her shoulder and motioned Ilse into the car.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take you, James. What on earth has happened to you?” she added, as he put her into the car, nodded to the chauffeur, and, springing in beside her, slammed the door.

“I’ll tell you in two words,” he explained gaily. “Prince Erlik and I started for a stroll and landed, ultimately, in the Café des Bulgars. And presently a number of gentlemen began to shoot up the place, and Miss Dumont stood by us like a brick.”

The Princess Mistchenka lifted the cat from her lap and placed it in the arms of Ilse Dumont.

“That ought to win our gratitude, I’m sure,” she said politely to the girl. “We Russians never forget such pleasant obligations. There is a Cossack jingle:

“To those who befriend our friends
Our duty never ends.”

Ilse Dumont bent low over the purring cat in her lap; the Princess watched her askance from moment to moment, and Neeland furtively noted the contrast between these women – one in rags and haggard disorder; the other so trim, pretty, and fresh in her morning walking suit.

“James,” she said abruptly, “we’ve had a most horrid night, Ruhannah and I. The child waited up for you, it seems – I thought she’d gone to bed – and she came to my room about two in the morning – the little goose – as though men didn’t stay out all night!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said contritely.

“You ought to be… And Ruhannah was so disturbed that I put on something and got out of bed. And after a while” – the Princess glanced sardonically at Ilse Dumont – “I telephoned to various sources of information and was informed concerning the rather lively episodes of your nocturnal career with Sengoun. And when I learned that you and he had been seen to enter the Café des Bulgars, I became sufficiently alarmed to notify several people who might be interested in the matter.”

“One of those people,” said Neeland, smiling, “was escorted to her home by Captain Sengoun, I think.”

The Princess glanced out of the window where the early morning sun glimmered on the trees as the car flew swiftly through the Champs Elysées.

“I heard that there were some men killed there last night,” she said without turning.

“Several, I believe,” admitted Neeland.

“Were you there, then?”

“Yes,” he replied, uncomfortably.

“Did you know anybody who was killed, James?”

“Yes, by sight.”

She turned to him:

“Who?”

“There was a man named Kestner; another named Weishelm. Three American gamblers were killed also.”

“And Karl Breslau?” inquired the Princess coolly.

There was a moment’s silence.

“No. I think he got away across the roofs of the houses,” replied Neeland.

Ilse Dumont, bent over the cat in her lap, stared absently into its green eyes where it lay playfully patting the rags that hung from her torn bodice.

Perhaps she was thinking of the dead man where he lay in the crowded café – the dead man who had confronted her with bloodshot eyes and lifted pistol – whose voice, thick with rage, had denounced her – whose stammering, untaught tongue stumbled over the foreign words with which he meant to send her to her death – this dead man who once had been her man – long ago – very, very long ago when there was no bitterness in life, no pain, no treachery – when life was young in the Western World, and Fate gaily beckoned her, wearing a smiling mask and crowned with flowers.

“I hope,” remarked the Princess Mistchenka, “that it is sufficiently early in the morning for you to escape observation, James.”

“I’m a scandal; I know it,” he admitted, as the car swung into the rue Soleil d’Or.

The Princess turned to the drooping girl beside her and laid a gloved hand lightly on her shoulder.