At this moment came the little dancer’s turn for surprise; for the audience, rising as one man, shouted in unison: “This is our Golden Circle!”
At this instant the entire auditorium seemed to burst into yellow flame. The effect was startling in the extreme. Only ten seconds were required, however, for those on the stage to realize that the wise old Solomon, their manager, had put something over on them. The gold was the flash and gleam of a thousand golden streamers thrown to every point of the compass by delighted patrons. Solomon had provided the streamers with their programmes. Each person had been told in advance that when the time came for using these they would know. And few there were that did not realize when the real moment arrived. Truly, this was an occasion long to be remembered.
Petite Jeanne’s face loomed large next day on every page devoted to dramatic art in the day’s papers. And beneath each were the words: “Girl of the Golden Circle.”
* * * * * * * *
There is little left to tell; Petite Jeanne, the old trouper, Angelo, Swen, and all the rest had scored a triumph that would not soon be forgotten.
Jeanne’s success did not, however, rob her of her interest in others; on the contrary, it served to increase it. On that very evening, as she was ushered into a magnificent reception room where she was to meet a very select company of patrons, the highly educated, the influential and the rich, she began her missionary work by whispering in every ear a deep secret of some tiny shop hidden away in a cellar where unusual objects of art might be purchased at unheard of prices. On the very next day Merry was astonished by the arrival of customers of such quality and importance as her little shop had not before known. It was no time at all before the little shop was humming merrily, Tad was busy at his bench and Merry back at her place at auction sales buying shrewdly for future needs.
One of the men captured by Florence and the friendly Englishman turned state’s evidence. By his confession, a band of contemptible rogues, who for a long time had been preying upon theatre folk, was apprehended and brought to justice.
As for the dark-faced evil-minded gypsy who coveted the God of Fire, good old Bihari made short work of him. He revealed to the immigration authorities that this man had entered the country without a passport. And since he was the very one who had stolen the treasured god in the first place, when he set foot in France he was outlawed by the gypsies themselves.
As Jeanne had known all the time, the wealthy Englishman, Preston Wamsley, had prized the articles of great beauty in his traveling bags, not because of their value in dollars, but because of his associations with those who from time to time had presented them to him. He had been broken-hearted upon learning that a blundering shipping clerk had billed them to the wrong name and address and that he had probably lost them forever.
Good fortune having knocked at his door, he was duly grateful. When Petite Jeanne had told the story, he insisted upon driving her out to Kay King’s tiny book shop, whereupon he rewarded the young man handsomely for the generous spirit he had shown in sacrificing sure financial gain in order to spare the feelings of a friend.
During all the long run of the highly successful light opera, the marble falcon remained in its place on Petite Jeanne’s dressing table.
“To me,” she said to her friend, the prima donna, one day, “it will always remain the symbol of one who, buffeted and broken by the storms of life, keeps his eyes fixed upon the clouds until at last he has achieved an abiding success.”
“Ah, yes, how beautifully you say it!” exclaimed the great one. “But you, Petite Jeanne, you are the marble falcon of all time.”
“I?” Petite Jeanne laughed a merry laugh. “For me life has been wonderful. There are always my many friends, you know.”
“Ah, yes, your Golden Circle. If it were not for these, our golden circles, how could we be brave enough to live at all?”
* * * * * * * *
There will be another book. Strange, indeed, were the adventures that later befell Florence, Jeanne and their friends. You may read about them in The Magic Curtain.
Transcriber’s Notes
- Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
- In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)