“Brava, my little Tziganes!” he said with happy emotion. “My little compatriots! My little tawny panthers of the Caucasus! What do you call yourselves in this bandbox of a country where two steps backward take you across any frontier?”
His dancing partner laughed till her sequins jingled from throat to ankle:
“They call us Fifi and Nini,” she replied. “Ask yourself why!”
“For example,” added the other girl, “we rise from this table and thank you. There is nothing further. C’est fini—c’est Fifi—Nini—comprenez-vous, Prince Erlik?”
“Hi! What?” exclaimed Sengoun. “I’m known, it appears, even to that devilish name of mine!” 340
Everybody laughed.
“After all,” he said, more soberly, “it’s a gipsy’s trade to know everybody and everything. Tiens!” He slapped a goldpiece on the table. “A kiss apiece against a louis that you don’t know my comrade’s name and nation!”
The girl called Nini laughed:
“We’re quite willing to kiss you, Prince Erlik, but a louis d’or is not a copper penny. And your comrade is American and his name is Tchames.”
“James!” exclaimed Sengoun.