arently recollecting:

"Ah! Apropos of Nihla? It is a ver' piquant storee--the storee of
Nihla Quellen. Zat is not 'er name. No! Her name is Dunois--Thessalie
Dunois."

"French," nodded d'Eblis.

"Alsatian," replied Ferez slyly. "Her fathaire was captain--Achille
Dunois?--you know----?"

"What!" exclaimed d'Eblis. "Do you mean that notorious fellow, the
Grand Duke Cyril's hunting cheetah?"

"The same, dear frien'. Dunois is dead--his bullet head was crack
open, doubtless by som' ladee's angree husban'. There are a few
thousan' roubles--not more--to stan' between some kind gentleman and
the prettee Nihla. You see?" he added to Gerhardt, who was listening
without interest, "--Dunois, if he was the Gran' Duke's cheetah, kept
all such merry gentlemen from his charming daughtaire."

Gerhardt, whose aspirations lay higher, socially, than a dancing girl,
merely grunted. But d'Eblis, whose aspirations were always below even
his own level, listened with visibly increasing curiosity. And this
was according to the programme of Ferez Bey and Excellenz. As the Hun
has it, "according to plan."

"Well," enquired d'Eblis heavily, "did Cyril get her?"

"All St. Petersburg is still laughing at heem," replied the voluble
Eurasian. "Cyril indeed launched her. And that was sufficient--yet,
that first night she storm St. Petersburg. And Cyril's reward? Listen,
d'Eblis, they say she slapped his sillee face. For me, I don't know.
That is the storee. And he was ver' angree, Cyril. You know? And, by
God, it was what Gerhardt calls a 'raw deal.' Yess? Figurez
vous!--this girl, deja lancee--and her fathaire the Grand Duke's
hunting cheetah, and her mothaire, what? Yes, mon ami, a 'andsome
Georgianne, caught quite wild, they say, by Prince Haledine! For me, I
believe it. Why not?... And then the beautiful Georgianne, she fell to
Dunois--on a bet?--a service rendered?--gratitude of Cyril?----Who
knows? Only that Dunois must marry her. And Nihla is their daughtaire.
Voila!"

"Then why," demanded d'Eblis, "does she make such a fuss about being
grateful? I hate ingratitude, Ferez. And how can she last, anyway? To
dance for the German Ambassador in Constantinople is all very well,
but unless somebody launches her properly--in Paris--she'll end in a
Pera cafe."

Ferez held his peace and listened with all his might.

"I could do that," added d'Eblis.

"Please?" inquired Ferez suavely.

"Launch her in Paris."

The programme of Excellenz