The Magic Curtain Part 22

"But I shall show them how a child of France may play her native drama."

At once she lost herself in the character of Jean, the wandering-juggler.

Eagerly she offered to do tricks with cup and b.a.l.l.s, to remove eggs from a hat.

Scorned by the throng, she did not despair.

"I know the hoop dance."

The children of the troop seized her by the hands to drag her about. And Jeanne, the lithe Jeanne who had so often enthralled thousands by her fairy-like steps, danced clumsily as the juggler must, then allowed herself to be abused by the children until she could break away.

"What a glorious company!" she was thinking in the back of her mind. "How they play up to me!"

"My lords," she cried when once more she was free, "to please you I'll sing a fine love salvation song."

They paid her no heed. As the juggler she did not despair.

As Jeanne, she saw a movement in a seat close to the opera pit. "An auditor!" Her heart sank. "What if it is someone who suspects and will give me away!" There was scant time for these thoughts.

As the juggler she offered songs of battle, songs of conquest, drama. To all this they cried:

"No! No! Give us rather a drinking song!"

At last yielding to their demand she sang: "Hallelujah, Sing the Hallelujah of Wine."

Then as the prior descended upon the throng, scattering them like tiny birds before a gale, she stood there alone, defenseless, as the prior denounced her.

Real tears were in her eyes as she began her farewell to the glorious liberty of hedge and field, river, road and forest of France.

This farewell was destined to end unfinished for suddenly a great ba.s.s voice roared:

"What is this? You are not Marjory Dean! Where is she? What are you doing here?"

A huge man with a fierce black mustache stood towering above her. She recognized in him the director of the opera, and wished that the section of the stage beneath her feet might sink, carrying her from sight.

"Here I am," came in a clear, cold tone. It was Marjory Dean who spoke.

She advanced toward the middle of the stage.

Riveted to their places, the members of the company stood aghast. Full well they knew the fire that lay ever smouldering in Marjory Dean's breast.

"And what does this mean? Why are you not rehearsing your part?"

"Because," Miss Dean replied evenly, "I chose to allow another, who can do it quite as well, to rehea.r.s.e with the company."

"And I suppose," there was bitter sarcasm in the director's voice, "she will sing the part when that night comes?"

"And if she did?"

"Then, Miss Dean, your services would no longer be required." The man was purple with rage.

"Very well." Marjory Dean's face went white. "We may as well--"

But Pet.i.te Jeanne was at her side. "Miss Dean, you do not know what you are saying. It is not worth the cost. Please, please!" she pleaded with tears in her voice. "Please forget me. At best I am only a little French wanderer. And you, you are the great Marjory Dean!"

Reading the anguish in her upturned face, Marjory Dean's anger was turned to compa.s.sion.

"Another time, another place," she murmured. "I shall never forget you!"

Half an hour later the rehearsal was begun once more. This time Marjory Dean was in the stellar role. It was a dead rehearsal. All the sparkle of it was gone. But it was a rehearsal all the same, and the director had had his way.

CHAPTER XXII THE ARMORED HORSE

As for Jeanne, once more dressed as Pierre and feeling like just no one at all, she had gone wandering away into the shadows of the orchestra floor, when suddenly she started. Someone had touched her arm.

Until this moment she had quite forgotten the lone auditor seated there in the dark. Now as she bent low to look into that person's face she started again as a name came to her lips.

"Rosemary Robinson!"

"It is I," Rosemary whispered. "I saw it all, Pierre." She held Jeanne's hand in a warm grasp. "You were wonderful! Simply magnificent! And the director. He was beastly!"

"No! No!" Jeanne protested. "He was but doing his duty."

"This," Rosemary replied slowly, "may be true. But for all that you are a marvelous 'Juggler of Notre Dame.' And it is too bad he found out.

"But come!" she whispered eagerly, springing to her feet. "Why weep when there is so much to be glad about? Let us go exploring!

"My father," she explained, "has done much for this place. I have the keys to every room. There are many mysteries. You shall see some of them."

Seizing Jeanne's hand, she led the way along a corridor, down two gloomy flights of stairs and at last into a vast place where only here and there a light burned dimly.

They were now deep down below the level of the street. The roar and thunder of traffic came to them only as a subdued rumble of some giant talking in his sleep.

The room was immense. Shadows were everywhere, shadows and grotesque forms.

"Where are we?" Jeanne asked, scarcely able to repress a desire to flee.

"It is one of the property rooms of the Opera House. What will you have?"

Rosemary laughed low and deep. "Only ask for it. You will find it here.

All these things are used at some time or another in the different operas."

As Jeanne's eyes became accustomed to the pale half-light, she realized that this must be nearly true. In a corner, piled tight in great dark sections, was a miniature mountain. Standing on edge, but spilling none of its make-believe water, was a pond where swans were wont to float.

A little way apart were the swans, resting on great heaps of gra.s.s that did not wither and flowers that did not die.

In a distant corner stood a great gray castle. Someone had set it up, perhaps to make sure that it was all intact, then had left it standing.