This put Jeanne at her ease at once; at least as much at ease as any girl masquerading as a boy might be expected to achieve.
“She’s a dear,” she thought to herself as Rosemary, leading her into the house, introduced her in the most nonchalant manner to the greatest earthly paradise she had ever known.
As she felt her feet sink deep in rich Oriental rugs, as her eyes feasted themselves upon oil paintings, tapestries and rare bits of statuary that had been gathered from every corner of the globe, she could not so much as regret the deception that had gained her entrance to this world of rare treasures.
“But would I wish to live here?” she asked herself. “It is like living in a museum.”
When she had entered Rosemary’s own little personal study, when she had feasted her eyes upon all the small objects of rare charm that were Rosemary’s own, upon the furniture done by master craftsmen and the interior decorated by a real artist, when she had touched the soft creations of silk that were curtains, drapes and pillows, she murmured:
“Yes. Here is that which would bring happiness to any soul who loves beauty and knows it when he sees it.”
“But we must not remain indoors on a day such as this!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Come!” She seized her new friend’s hand. “We will go out into the sunshine. You are a sun worshipper, are you not?”
“Perhaps,” said Jeanne who, you must not forget, was for the day Pierre Andrews. “I truly do not know.”
“There are many sun worshippers these days.” Rosemary laughed a merry laugh. “And why not? Does not the sun give us life? And if we rest beneath his rays much of the time, does he not give us a more abundant life?”
“See!” Pierre, catching the spirit of the hour, held out a bare arm as brown as the dead leaves of October. “I am a sun worshipper!”
At this they went dancing down the hall.
“But, see!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Here is the organ!” She threw open a door, sprang to a bench, touched a switch here, a stop there, then began sending out peals of sweet, low, melodious music.
“A pipe organ!” Jeanne exclaimed. “In your home!”
“Why not?” Rosemary laughed. “Father likes the organ. Why should he not hear it when he chooses? It is a very fine one. Many of the great masters have been here to play it. I am taking lessons. In half an hour I must come here for a lesson. Then you must become a sun worshipper. You may wander where you please or just lie by the lily pond and dream in the sun.”
“I am fond of dreaming.”
“Then you shall dream.”
The grounds surrounding the great house were to the little French girl a land of enchantment. The formal garden where even in late autumn the rich colors of bright red, green and gold vied with the glory of the Indian Summer sunshine, the rock garden, the pool where gold-fish swam, the rustic bridge across the brook, and back of all this the primeval forest of oak, walnut and maple; all this, as they wandered over leaf-strewn paths, reminded her of the forests and hedges, the grounds and gardens of her own beloved France.
“Truly,” she whispered to herself, “all this is worth being rich for.
“But what a pity—” Her mood changed. “What a pity that it may not belong to all—to the middle class, the poor.
“And yet,” she concluded philosophically, “they have the parks. Truly they are beautiful always.”
It was beside a broad pool where lily pads lay upon placid waters that Jeanne at last found a place of repose beneath the mellow autumn sun, to settle down to the business of doing her bit of sun worship.
It was truly delightful, this spot, and very dreamy. There were broad stretches of water between the clusters of lily pads. In these, three stately swans, seeming royal floats of some enchanted midget city, floated. Some late flowers bloomed at her feet. Here bees hummed drowsily. A dragon fly, last of his race, a great green ship with bulging eyes, darted here and there. Yet in his movements there were suggestions of rest and dreamy repose. The sun was warm. From the distance came the drone of a pipe organ. It, too, spoke of rest. Jeanne, as always, had retired at a late hour on the previous night. Her head nodded. She stretched herself out upon the turf. She would close her eyes for three winks.
“Just three winks.”
But the drowsy warmth, the distant melody, the darting dragon fly, seen even in her dreams, held her eyes tight closed.
As she dreamed, the bushes not five yards away parted and a face peered forth. It was not an inviting face. It was a dark, evil-eyed face with a trembling leer about the mouth. Jeanne had seen this man. He had called to her. She had run away. That was long ago, before the door of the opera. She did not see him now. She slept.
A little bird scolding in a tree seemed eager to wake her. She did not wake.
The man moved forward a step. Someone unseen appeared to move behind him. With a wolf-like eye he glanced to right and left. He moved another step. He was like a cat creeping upon his prey.
“Wake up, Jeanne! Wake up! Wake! Wake! Wake up!” the little bird scolded on. Jeanne did not stir. Still the sun gleamed warm, the music droned, the dragon fly darted in her dreams.
But what is this? The evil-eyed one shrinks back into his place of hiding. No footsteps are heard; the grass is like a green carpet, as the master of the estate and his wife approach.
They would have passed close to the sleeping one had not a glance arrested them.
“What a beautiful boy!” whispered the lady. “And see how peacefully he sleeps! He is a friend of Rosemary, a mere child of the opera. She has taken a fancy to him.”
“Who would not?” the man rumbled low. “I have seen him at our box. There was the affair of the pearls. He—”
“Could a guilty person sleep so?”
“No.”
“Not upon the estate of one he has robbed.”
“Surely not. Do you know,” the lady’s tone became deeply serious, “I have often thought of adopting such a child, a boy to be a companion and brother to Rosemary.”
Could Jeanne have heard this she might well have blushed. She did not hear, for the sun shone on, the music still droned and the dragon fly darted in her dreams.
The lady looked in the great man’s eyes. She read an answer there.
“Shall we wake him and suggest it now?” she whispered.
Ah, Jeanne! What shall the answer be? You are Pierre. You are Jeanne.
But the great man shakes his head. “The thing needs talking over. In a matter of so grave importance one must look carefully before one moves. We must consider.”
So the two pass on. And once again Jeanne has escaped.
And now Rosemary comes racing down the slope to discover her and to waken her by tickling her nose with a swan’s feather.
“Come!” she exclaims, before Jeanne is half conscious of her surroundings. “We are off for a canter over the bridle path!” Seizing Jeanne’s hand, she drags her to her feet. Then together they go racing away toward the stables.
The remainder of that day was one joyous interlude in Petite Jeanne’s not uneventful life. Save for the thought that Rosemary believed her a boy, played with her and entertained her as a boy and was, perhaps, just a little interested in her as a boy, no flaw could be found in this glorious occasion.
A great lover of horses since her days in horse-drawn gypsy vans, she gloried in the spirited brown steed she rode. The day was perfect. Blue skies with fleecy clouds drifting like sheep in a field, autumn leaves fluttering down, cobwebs floating lazily across the fields; this was autumn at its best.
They rode, those two, across green meadows, down shady lanes, through forests where shadows were deep. Now and again Rosemary turned an admiring glance upon her companion sitting in her saddle with ease and riding with such grace.
“If she knew!” Jeanne thought with a bitter-sweet smile. “If she only knew!”
“Where did you learn to ride so well?” Rosemary asked, as they alighted and went in to tea.
“In France, t
o be sure.”
“And who taught you?”
“Who but the gypsies?”
“Gypsies! How romantic!”
“Romantic? Yes, perhaps.” Jeanne was quick to change the subject. She was getting into deep water. Should she begin telling of her early life she must surely, sooner or later, betray her secret.
“Rich people,” she thought, as she journeyed homeward in the great car when the day was done, “they are very much like others, except when they choose to show off. And I wonder how much they enjoy that, after all.
“But Rosemary! Does she suspect? I wonder! She’s such a peach! It’s a shame to deceive her. Yet, what sport! And besides, I’m getting a little of what I want, a whole big lot, I guess.” She was thinking once more of Marjory Dean’s half-promise.
“Will she truly allow me to be her understudy, to go on in her place when the ‘Juggler’ is done again?” She was fairly smothered by the thought; yet she dared to hope—a little.
CHAPTER XI
A DANCE FOR THE SPIRITS
When Jeanne arrived at the rooms late that night, after her evening among the opera boxes, she found a half burned out fire in the grate and a rather amusing note from Florence on the table:
“I am asleep. Do not disturb me.” This is how the note ran.
She read the note and smiled. “Poor, dear, big Florence,” she murmured. “How selfish I am! She works hard. Often she needs rest that she does not get. Yet I am always hoping that she will be here to greet me and to cheer me with jolly chatter and something warm to drink.”
Still in this thoughtful mood, she entered her chamber. She did not switch on the light at once, but stood looking out of the window. Somewhat to her surprise, she saw a dark figure lurking in the shadows across the street.
“Who could it be?” she whispered.
She had little hope of solving this problem when an automobile light solved it for her and gave her a shock besides. The light fell full upon the man’s face. She recognized him instantly.
“Jaeger!” She said the name out loud and trembled from head to foot.
Jaeger was the detective who haunted the boxes at the opera.
“He is shadowing me!” She could not doubt this. “He believes I stole those pearls. Perhaps he thinks he can catch me trying them on. Not much chance of that.” She laughed uneasily. “It is well enough to know you are innocent; but to convince others, that is the problem.”
She thought of the lady in black. “If only I could see her, speak to her!” She drew the shades, threw on the light and disrobed, still in a thoughtful mood. She was remembering the voice of that lady.
There was something hauntingly familiar about that voice. It brought to her mind a feeling of forests and rippling waters, the scent of balsam and the song of birds. Yet she could not tell where she had heard it before.
Joan of Arc was Jeanne’s idol. Once as a child, wandering with the gypsies, she had slept within the shadows of the church where Joan received her visions. At another time she had sat for an entire forenoon dreaming the hours away in the chamber that had once been Joan’s own. Yet, unlike Joan, she did not love wearing the clothes of a boy. She was fond of soft, clinging, silky things, was this delicate French child. So, dressed in the silkiest of all silks and the softest of satin robes, she built herself a veritable mountain of pillows before the fire and, sinking back into that soft depth, proceeded to think things through.
To this strange girl sitting at the mouth of her cave made of pillows, the fire on the hearth was a magic fire. She prodded it. As it blazed red, she saw in it clearly the magic curtain. She felt again the thrill of this mysterious discovery. Once more she was gazing upon strange smoking images, bronze eagles, giants’ heads, dragons. She smelled the curious, choking incense. And again the feeling of wild terror seized her.
So real was the vision that she leaped to her feet, sending the soft walls of her cave flying in every direction.
Next instant she was in complete possession of her senses. “Why am I afraid?” she asked herself. “Why was I afraid then? It is but a stage setting, some Oriental magic.”
A thought struck her all of a heap. “Stage setting! That’s it!” she exclaimed in a low whisper. “Why not? What a wonderful setting for some exotic little touch of Oriental drama!
“I must return to that place. I must see that Magic Curtain once more.” She rearranged the door to her cave. “I must take someone with me. Why not Marjory Dean?”
The thought pleased her. She mused over it until the fire burned low.
But with the dimming of the coals her spirits ebbed. As she gazed into the fire she seemed to see a dark and evil face leering at her, the man who had called to her at the opera door.
Had she seen that same face staring at her on that other occasion when she slept in the sun on the Robinson estate, she might well have shuddered more violently. As it was, she asked but a single question: “Who is he?”
She threw on fuel. The fire flamed up. Once more she was gay as she heard Marjory Dean whisper those magic words:
“You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place.”
“Will you?” she cried, stretching her arms wide. “Oh! Will you, Marjory Dean?”
After this emotional outburst she sat for a long time quite motionless.
“I wonder,” she mused after a time, “why this desire should have entered my heart. Why Grand Opera? I have done Light Opera. I sang. I danced. They applauded. They said I was marvelous. Perhaps I was.” Her head fell a little forward.
“Ambition!” Her face was lifted to the ceiling. “It is ambition that drives us on. When I was a child I danced in the country lanes. Then I must go higher, I must dance in a village; in a small city; in a large city; in Paris. That so beautiful Paris! And now it must be Grand Opera; something drives me on.”
She prodded the fire and, for the last time that night, it flamed high.
Springing to her feet she cast off her satin robe to go racing across the floor in the dance of the juggler. Low and clear, her voice rose in a French song of great enchantment. For a time her delicate, elf-like form went weaving in and out among the shadows cast by the fire. Then, all of a sudden, she danced into her chamber. The show, given only for spirits and fairies, was at an end.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered low, as her eyes closed for sleep, “tomorrow there is no opera. I shall not see Marjory Dean, nor Rosemary, nor those dark-faced ones who dog my steps. Tomorrow? Whom shall I see? What strange new acquaintance shall I make; what adventures come to me?”
CHAPTER XII
THE LOST CAMEO
In spite of the fact that the Opera House was dark on the following night, adventure came to Petite Jeanne, adventure and excitement a-plenty. It came like the sudden rush of an ocean’s wave. One moment she and Florence were strolling in a leisurely manner down the center of State Street; the next they were surrounded, completely engulfed and carried whither they knew not by a vast, restless, roaring, surging sea of humanity.
For many days they had read accounts of a great autumn festival that was to occur on this night. Having never witnessed such a fete, save in her native land, Petite Jeanne had been eager to attend. So here they were. And here, too, was an unbelievable multitude.
Petite Jeanne cast a startled look at her companion.
Florence, big capable Florence, smiled as she bent over to speak in the little French girl’s ear.
“Get in front of me. I’ll hold them back.”
“But why all this?” Petite Jeanne tried to gesture, only to end by prodding a fat man in the stomach.
“This,” laughed Florence, “is Harvest Jubilee Night. A city of three million invited all its citizens to come down and enjoy themselves in six city blocks. Bands are to play. Radio stars are to be seen. Living models will be in all the store windows.
“The three million are here. They will hear no bands. They will see
no radio stars, nor any living models either. They will see and hear only themselves.”
“Yes. And they will feel one another, too!” the little French girl cried, as the crush all but pressed the breath from her lungs. The look on her face was one of pure fright. Florence, too, was thinking serious thoughts. That which had promised only a bit of adventure in the beginning bade fair to become a serious matter. Having moved down the center of a block, they had intended turning the corner. But now, caught in the tremendous crush of humanity, by the thousands upon thousands of human beings who thronged the streets, carried this way and that by currents and counter-currents, they were likely to be carried anywhere. And should the crush become too great, they might well be rendered unconscious by the vise-like pressure of the throng.
This indeed was Harvest Jubilee Night. The leading men of this city had made a great mistake. Wishing to draw thousands of people to the trading center of the city, they had staged a great fete. As Florence had said, men and women of note, actors, singers, radio stars were to be found on grand stands erected at every street crossing. All this was wonderful, to be sure! Only one fact had been lost sight of: that hundreds of thousands of people cannot move about freely in the narrow space of six city blocks.
Now, here were the laughing, shouting, crowding, groaning, weeping thousands. What was to come of it all? Petite Jeanne asked herself this question, took one long quivering breath, then looked up at her stout companion and was reassured.
“We came here for a lark,” she told herself. “We must see it through.
“I only hope,” she caught her breath again, “that I don’t see anyone in this crowd who makes me trouble. Surely I cannot escape him here!” She was thinking of the dark-faced man with the evil eye.
“Keep up courage,” Florence counseled. “We’ll make it out of here safe enough.”
But would they? Every second the situation became more tense. Now they were carried ten paces toward Wabash Avenue; now, like some dance of death, the crowd surged backward toward Dearborn Street. And now, caught in an eddy, they whirled round and round.
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