At midnight the two young men had not yet parted. For, as Sengoun
explained, the hour for parting was already past, and it was too late
to consider it now. And Neeland thought so, too, what with the
laughter and the music, and the soft night breezes to counsel folly,
and the city's haunting brilliancy stretching away in bewitching
perspectives still unexplored.
From every fairy lamp the lustrous capital signalled to youth her
invitation, her challenge, and her menace. Like some jewelled
sorceress--some dreaming Circe by the river bank, pondering new
spells--so Paris lay in all her mystery and beauty under the July
stars.
Sengoun, his arm through Neeland's, had become affectionately
confidential. He explained that he really was a nocturnal creature;
that now he had completely waked up; that his habits were due to a
passion for astronomy, and that the stars he had discovered at odd
hours of the early morning were more amazing than any celestial bodies
ever before identified.
But Neeland, whose head and heart were already occupied, declined to
study any constellations; and they drifted through the bluish lustre
of white arc-lights and the clustered yellow glare of incandescent
lamps toward a splash of iridescent glory among the chestnut trees,
where music sounded and tables stood amid flowers and grass and little
slender fountains which balanced silver globes upon their jets.
The waiters were in Russian peasant dress; the orchestra was Russian
gipsy; the bill of fare was Russian; and there was only champagne to
be had.
Balalaika orchestra and spectators were singing some evidently
familiar song--one of those rushing, clattering, clashing choruses of
the Steppes; and Sengoun sang too, with all his might, when he and
Neeland were seated, which was thirsty work.
Two fascinating Russian gipsy girls were dancing--slim, tawny, supple
creatures in their scarlet and their jingling bangles. After a
deafening storm of applause, their flashing smiles swept the audience,
and, linking arms, they sauntered off between the tables under the
trees.
"I wish to dance," remarked Sengoun. "My legs will kick over something
if I don't."
They were playing an American dance--a sort of skating step; people
rose; couple after couple took the floor; and Sengoun looked around
for a partner. He discovered no eligible partner likely to favour him
without a quarrel with her escort; and he was debating with Neeland
whether a row would be worth while, when the gipsy girls sauntered
by.
"Oh," he said gaily, "a pretty Tzigane can save my life if she will!"
And the girls laughed and Sengoun led one of them out at a reckless
pace.