The Dark Star

“My dear,” she said gently, “there is only one chance for you, and if we let it pass it will not come again – under military law.”

Ilse lifted her head, held it high, even tilted back a little.

The Princess said:

“Twenty-four hours will be given for all Germans to leave France. But – you took your nationality from the man you married. You are American.”

The girl flushed painfully:

“I do not care to take shelter under his name,” she said.

“It is the only way. And you must get to the coast in my car. There is no time to lose. Every vehicle, private and public, will be seized for military uses this morning. Every train will be crowded; every foot of room occupied on the Channel boats. There is only one thing for you to do – travel with me to Havre as my American maid.”

“Madame – would you do that – for me?”

“Why, I’ve got to,” said the Princess Mistchenka with a shrug. “I am not a barbarian to leave you to a firing squad, I hope.”

The car had stopped; the chauffeur descended and came around to open the door.

“Caron,” said the Princess, “no servants are stirring yet. Take my key, find a cloak and bring it out – and a coat for Monsieur Neeland – the one that Captain Sengoun left the other evening. Have you plenty of gasoline?”

“Plenty, madame.”

“Good. We leave for Havre in five minutes. Bring the cloak and coat quickly.”

The chauffeur hastened to the door, unlocked it, disappeared, then came out carrying a voluminous wrap and a man’s opera cloak. The Princess threw the one over Ilse Dumont; Neeland enveloped himself in the other.

“Now,” murmured the Princess Naïa, “it will look more like a late automobile party than an ambulance after a free fight – if any early servants are watching us.”

She descended from the car; Ilse Dumont followed, still clasping the cat under her cloak; and Neeland followed her.

“Be very quiet,” whispered the Princess. “There is no necessity for servants to observe what we do–”

A small and tremulous voice from the head of the stairs interrupted her:

“Naïa! Is it you?”

“Hush, Ruhannah! Yes, darling, it is I. Everything is all right and you may go back to bed–”

“Naïa! Where is Mr. Neeland?” continued the voice, fearfully.

“He is here, Rue! He is all right. Go back to your room, dear. I have a reason for asking you.”

Listening, she heard a door close above; then she touched Ilse on the shoulder and motioned her to follow up the stairs. Halfway up the Princess halted, bent swiftly over the banisters:

“James!” she called softly.

“Yes?”

“Go into the pantry and find a fruit basket and fill it with whatever food you can find. Hurry, please.”

He discovered the pantry presently, and a basket of fruit there. Poking about he contrived to disinter from various tins and ice-boxes some cold chicken and biscuits and a bottle of claret. These he wrapped hastily in a napkin which he found there, placed them in the basket of fruit, and came out into the hall just as Ilse Dumont, in the collar and cuffs and travelling coat of a servant, descended, carrying a satchel and a suitcase.

“Good business!” he whispered, delighted. “You’re all right now, Scheherazade! And for heaven’s sake, keep out of France hereafter. Do you promise?”

He had taken the satchel and bag from her and handed both, and the fruit basket, to Caron, who stood outside the door.

In the shadowy hall those two confronted each other now, probably for the last time. He took both her hands in his.

“Good-bye, Scheherazade dear,” he said, with a new seriousness in his voice which made the tone of it almost tender.

“G-good-bye–” The girl’s voice choked; she bent her head and rested her face on the hands he held clasped in his.

He felt her hot tears falling, felt the slender fingers within his own tighten convulsively; felt her lips against his hand – an instant only; then she turned and slipped through the open door.

A moment later the Princess Naïa appeared on the stairs, descending lightly and swiftly, her motor coat over her arm.

“Jim,” she said in a low voice, “it’s the wretched girl’s only chance. They know about her; they’re looking for her now. But I am trusted by my Ambassador; I shall have what papers I ask for; I shall get her through to an American steamer.”

“Princess Naïa, you are splendid!”

“You don’t think so, Jim; you never did… Be nice to Rue. The child has been dreadfully frightened about you… And,” added the Princess Mistchenka with a gaily forced smile, resting her hand on Neeland’s shoulder for an instant, “don’t ever kiss Rue Carew unless you mean it with every atom of your heart and soul… I know the child… And I know you. Be generous to her, James. All women need it, I think, from such men as you – such men as you,” she added laughingly, “who know not what they do.”

If there was a subtle constraint in her pretty laughter, if her gay gesture lacked spontaneity, he did not perceive it. His face had flushed a trifle under her sudden badinage.

“Good-bye,” he said. “You are splendid, and I do think so. I know you’ll win through.”

“I shall. I always do – except with you,” she added audaciously. And “Look for me tomorrow!” she called back to him through the open door; and slammed it behind her, leaving him standing there alone in the dark and curtained house.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE FIRST DAY

Neeland had undressed, bathed his somewhat battered body, and had then thrown himself on the bed, fully intending to rise in a few moments and await breakfast.

But it was a very weary young man who stretched himself out for ten minutes’ repose. And, when again he unclosed his eyes, the austere clock on the mantel informed him that it was five – not five in the morning either.

He had slept through the first day of general mobilisation.

Across the lowered latticed blinds late afternoon sunshine struck red. The crests of the chestnut trees in the rue Soleil d’Or had turned rosy; and a delicate mauve sky, so characteristic of Paris in early autumn, already stretched above the city like a frail tent of silk from which fragile cobweb clouds hung, tinted with saffron and palest rose.

Hoisting the latteen shades, he looked out through lace curtains into the most silent city he had ever beheld. Not that the streets and avenues were deserted: they swarmed with hurrying, silent people and with taxicabs.

Never had he seen so many taxicabs; they streamed by everywhere, rushing at high speed. They passed through the rue Soleil d’Or; the rue de la Lune fairly whizzed with them; the splendid avenue was merely a vista of flying taxis; and in every one of them there was a soldier.

Otherwise, except for cyclists, there seemed to be very few soldiers in Paris – an odd fact immediately noticeable.

Also there were no omnibuses to be seen, no private automobiles, no electric vehicles of any sort except great grey army trucks trundling by with a sapper at the wheel.