by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XXVII DREAMING
Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful lightopera, _The Gypsy God of Fire_. No other could write as he--or so Jeannethought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnightwould be here before anyone could dream three dreams.
And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? "His garretstudio and at night," Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. "To-morrowwe will go."
"But to-morrow I cannot go. My work keeps me out late."
"Ah, well, then I shall go alone."
"Are you not afraid to be on the streets at night?"
"As Pierre I am afraid. But I shall be Petite Jeanne. As Jeanne I shallbe safe enough."
Knowing the futility of an argument with this strange child of France,Florence smiled and went on her way.
That is how it came about that Jeanne found herself at a late hourclimbing the stairway that led to the garret studio that once hadwitnessed so much lightness and gaiety.
She had expected to find changes. Times were hard. It had come to her, inindirect ways, that her good friend had met with little success in NewYork. But she was scarcely prepared for that which met her gaze as thedoor was thrown open by Angelo himself.
Advancing into the center of the room, she found bare floors where therehad been bright, rich, Oriental rugs. The unique stage, with all itssettings of blue, green, red and gold, was bare.
"Yes," Angelo spoke slowly, meditatively, as if answering her mood, "theytook my things, one at a time. Fair enough, too. I owed money. I couldnot pay. The piano went first, my old, old friend. A battered friend itwas, but its tones were true.
"And what grand times we had around that piano! Remember?"
"I remember." Jeanne's tone was low.
"But don't be sad about it." Angelo was actually smiling. "They took thepiano, the rugs, the desk where I composed your light opera.
"Ah, yes; but after all, these are but the symbols of life. They are notlife itself. They could not carry away the memory of those days, thosegood brave days when we were sometimes rich and sometimes very, verypoor. The memories of those days will be with us forever. And of suchmemories as these life, the best of life, is made."
After some brief, commonplace remarks, came a moment of silence.
"If you'll excuse me," Swen, Angelo's friend, said, "I will go out tosearch for a bit of cheer."
"Yes, yes. He will bring us cheer. Then he will sing us a song." Jeannemade a brave attempt at being merry.
When Swen was gone, Angelo motioned her to a place before the fire.
"We will not despair. 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast.' Thebeautiful spring-time of life will bloom again.
"And see," he exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, "we still have thefireplace! They could not take that. And there is always wood to be had.I found this on the beach. It was washed up high in the storm at a spotwhere children romp all summer long. Driftwood. Some from a broken shipand some from who knows where?
"See how it burns. The flame! The flame!" He was all but chanting now."What colors there are! Can you see them? There is red and orange, pink,purple, blue. All like a miniature magic curtain."
"Yes, like a magic curtain," Jeanne murmured.
Then suddenly she awoke from the entrancing spell this remarkable youthhad woven.
"Ah, yes, but those brave days will return for you!" she cried, springingto her feet and leaping away in a wild dance. "The magic curtain, it willbring them back to you!"
His fine eyes shone as he rose to admire the grace of her rhythmic dance."Now you are dreaming."
"Dreaming?" She stopped dead still. "Perhaps. But my dreams will cometrue. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. Youwill write a grand opera."
"Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks." He still smiled. Nevertheless heheld her hand in a warm clasp.
"Yes," she agreed, "I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But,for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my goodfriend!" Her tone was impressive. "I have seen that which will form thebackground for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; butan opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall writeit."
"You talk in riddles." He drew her to a seat beside him. "Explain, mybeautiful gypsy."
"This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain thatburns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it foryourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than anyyou have yet dreamed."
"And you shall be the leading lady!" He had caught the spirit of thehour. "That shall be glory. Glory for me."
"Ah, no, my friend." Petite Jeanne's head drooped a little. "I am notknown to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grandlady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?"
"You are right." Angelo's tone was solemn. "She is very grand, marvelousindeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all thingsbest for those who love us a little."
"Ah, you would say that!" Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave hima gentle shake.
"But see!" she cried when she had regained her composure. "Marjory Dean,too, is to see the magic curtain. To-morrow at midnight, you shall seeher. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then allwill be more than well.
"And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rollsstuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with thefeast!"
Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid ofhandles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoysuch a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in thosebalmy days when purses were lined with gold.
"What is poverty when one has friends?" Angelo demanded joyously, as atlast he assisted Jeanne to her feet.
"What, indeed?" Jeanne agreed heartily.
"Friday at midnight," Angelo said solemnly, as a moment later Jeannestood at the doorway.
"As the clock strikes the hour," she breathed. Then she was gone.
