The gérant smiled. After he had gone away toward the further room in the café, Neeland remarked to Sengoun that doubtless their real names were perfectly well known, and Sengoun disdainfully shrugged his indifference:
“What can one expect in this dirty rat-nest of Europe? Abdul the Damned employed one hundred thousand spies in Constantinople alone! And William the Sudden admired him. Why, Neeland, mon ami, I never take a step in the streets without being absolutely certain that I am watched and followed. What do I care! Except that towns make me sick. But the only cure is a Khirgiz horse and a thousand lances. God send them. I’m sick of cities.”
A few moments later the gérant returned and, in a low voice, requested them to accompany him.
They passed leisurely through the café, between tables where lowered eyes seemed to deny any curiosity; but guests and waiters looked after them after they had passed, and here and there people whispered together—particularly two men who had followed them 357 from the sun-dial fountain in the rue Soleil d’Or to the Jardin Russe, across the Place de la Concorde, and into the Café des Bulgars in the rue Vilna.
On the stairs Neeland heard Sengoun still muttering to himself:
“Certainly I am sick of cities and narrow strips of sky. What I need is a thousand lances at a gallop, and a little Kirghiz horse between my knees.”