Adieu! We Tziganes wish you well—Fifi and Nini of the Jardin Russe.
“Adieu, beau jeune homme! And—to her whom you shall take with you—homage, good wishes, good augury, and adieux!”
“‘To her whom you shall take with you,’” he repeated, looking at Rue Carew.
The girl blushed furiously and bent her head, and her slender fingers grew desperately busy with her handkerchief.
Neeland, as nervous as she, fumbled with the seal of the remaining letter, managed finally to break it, glanced at the writing, then laughed and read:
My dear Comrade Neeland:
I get my thousand lances! Congratulate me! Were you much battered by that canaille last night? I laugh until I nearly burst when I think of that absurd bousculade!
That girl I took with me is all right. I’m going to Petrograd! I’m going on the first opportunity by way of Switzerland.
What happiness, Neeland! No more towns for me, except those I take. No more politics, no more diplomacy! I shall have a thousand lances to do my talking for me. Hurrah!
Neeland, I love you as a brother. Come to the East with me. You shall make a splendid trooper! Not, of course, a Terek Cossack. A Cossack is God’s work. A Terek Cossack is born, not made.