Jeanne stepped inside. The place she entered was blue with cigaret smoke. Idling about the large room, on couches and rugs were a half dozen girls dressed, as this other one, in bright costumes. At the back of the room was a booth, inside the booth a small table and a chair.
Instantly Jeanne found herself ill at ease in these surroundings. She had seen much of gypsy life, but this—somehow a guardian gnome seemed to whisper a warning in her ear.
Turning, she said a few words. She spoke in a strange tongue—the lingo of her own gypsy people. The girl she addressed stared at her blankly. Turning about, she repeated the words in a louder tone. Every girl in the room must have heard. Not one replied.
“You are not gypsies!” Jeanne exclaimed, stamping her foot. “You do not know the gypsy language.”
“Not gypsies! Not gypsies!” The swarm of girls were up and screaming like a flock of angry bluejays. “We are gypsies! We are gypsies!”
“Well,” said Jeanne, backing toward the door, “you don’t seem much like gypsies. You should be able to speak the language—”
“Paveoe, our mistress, she speaks that silly nonsense!” one of the girls exclaimed. “Come when she is here and you shall hear it by the hour.”
“And does she run this place?” Jeanne asked. She was now at the door and breathing more easily.
“Y-yes,” the girl said slowly, “Paveoe is the woman who runs this place.”
“I’ll be back.” Jeanne opened the door, closed it quietly and was gone.