The Dark Star - Robert W. Chambers (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📗

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 403 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 404 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 405 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 406 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.

“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?” 407

“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. 408

“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 409 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.