“I had not long to wait. As if by magic I felt my door, my life saving raft, lifted beneath me by a raging torrent and go spinning round and round. We were on our way, riding the flood of a cloudburst.
“Well—” He paused to reflect. “I landed in a fellow’s cornfield. He wanted to charge me for the corn my raft broke down. I wouldn’t stand for that, so I went down to Denver and joined a troupe that was playing Ten Nights in a Bar Room. For a man that never drank, I claim I had a pretty good line.”
“But that gold?” put in Swen.
“Oh! The gold? Sure. Yes, the gold!” For a moment the old man seemed bewildered. Then a bright smile lighted his wrinkled face.
“Gold, my son, is heavy. That flood moved half the mountainside. And when it was over, where was my golden boulder? At the bottom of it all, to be sure.”
“That story,” said Petite Jeanne, “sounds almost true.”
“True?” He beamed on her his old, gracious smile. “Of course it’s true. At least, I did once play a part in Ten Nights in a Bar Room—a mighty fine line, too, for a man who never drank a quart of whisky in his whole life.”
After that, Dan Baker sat for a time staring at the glittering bit of gold, the smallest coin of our realm. When he spoke again it was to the coin alone. “You came to me by chance. What for? To buy stale bread, and butter made from cocoanut oil, and a soup bone? Tell me. Shall it be this, or shall it be sirloin steak, a pie and a big pot of coffee with real cream?”
As Petite Jeanne looked and listened, she seemed to see him once again, standing half buried in snow, a tin cup frozen to his benumbed fingers. She was about to speak, to utter words of wise counsel, when with a suddenness that caused them all to start, there came a loud knock at the door.
The unexpected visitor was a short, stout man with a large hooked nose. So completely engulfed was he in a great raccoon coat, that on first sight not one of them recognized him. When, however, he had removed that coat he was known at a glance. It was none other than the rather ugly, fat Jew who had taken Angelo’s name and address on that dismal day when they stood with their trunks before the old Blackmoore theatre.
“So, ho!” he exclaimed. Just as, Jeanne thought, a bear might should he enter a cave filled with rabbits.
“Fine place here.” He advanced toward the fire. “All very cheerful. Delightful company. May I sit down?”
Without waiting for an answer, he took a chair by the fire.
An awkward silence followed. Petite Jeanne wiggled her bare toes; she had danced a little that evening. Swen pawed his blonde mane. Dan Baker stared dreamily into the fire.
The stranger’s eyes wandered from one to the other of them. They rested longest on Petite Jeanne. This made her uncomfortable.
“My name,” said the stranger, crashing the silence and indulging in a broad grin that completely transformed his face, “is Abraham Solomon. You’d say my parents left nothing to the imagination when they named me, now wouldn’t you?” He laughed uproariously.
“Well, they didn’t. And neither do I. Never have. Never will. What I want to know is, have you placed that light opera?” He turned an enquiring eye on Angelo.
“No, er—” the Italian youth stammered, “we—we haven’t.”
“Then,” said Solomon, “suppose you show it to me now.” He nodded toward the miniature stage at the back of the studio. “That is, as much of it as you can—first act at least.”
“Gladly.
“On your toes!” Angelo smiled as his friends leaped from their places by the fire. Not one of them could guess what it meant. But, like Petite Jeanne, they believed more or less in fairies, goblins, and Santa Claus.
The performance they put on that night for the benefit of their audience of one, who sat like a Sphinx with his back to the fire, would have done credit to a broader stage.
When they had finished, the look on the stranger’s face had not changed.
Rising suddenly from his chair, he seemed about to depart without a word.
Petite Jeanne could have wept. She had hoped—what had she not hoped? And now—
But no. The man turned to Angelo. “Got a phone here?”
“Yonder.” Angelo pointed a trembling finger toward the corner. There was a strange glow on his face. Perhaps he read character better than Jeanne.
They heard Solomon call a number. Then:
“That you, Mister Mackenzie? Solomon speaking. Is the Junior Ballet there?
“Spare ’em for an hour? In costume? Put on their fur coats and send ’em over.”
“Where?”
“What’s this number?” He whirled about to ask Angelo.
“Six—six—eight.”
“Six—six—eight on the boulevard. Send ’em in taxis. I’ll meet ’em at the sidewalk and pay the fares.
“Fifteen minutes? Great!”
Without a word he drew on his great coat and, slamming the door behind him, went thumping down the stairs.
“What—what—” Jeanne was too astonished for speech.
Angelo seized her hand. He drew their friends into the circle and pulled them into a wild roundo-rosa about the room.
“We’re made!” he exclaimed as, out of breath, he released them. “Abraham Solomon is the greatest genius of a manager and producer the world has ever known.
“And the Junior Ballet! Oh, la la! You never have seen so many natural beauties before, and never will again. They are in training for Grand Opera. So you see they must be most beautiful and good.
“And to think,” he cried, almost in dismay, “they will be here, here in my studio in fifteen minutes! Every one of you give me a hand. Let’s put it in order.”
As she assisted in the re-arranging of the studio, Petite Jeanne found her head all awhirl. Half an hour before she had listened with a pain in her heart to Dan Baker discussing dry bread or a full meal over a small gold piece he had gained by begging in the snow. And now all this. How could she stand it? She wanted to run away.
“But I must not,” she told herself stoutly. “I must not! For this is our golden hour.”
Scarcely had she regained her composure when there came the sound of many pairs of feet ascending the stairs.
“They come,” Angelo whispered.
“Oh, my good Father of Love!” Petite Jeanne murmured faintly. “Is it for this that I have danced so long?”
“It is for this.”
“Then—” In the girl’s eyes was a prayer. “Then, good Father, give me courage for one short hour.”
A moment later Angelo and Swen were assisting in the removal of fur coats from visions of loveliness that surpassed the most gorgeous butterflies. For this, you must know, was the Junior Ballet of the Grand Opera. Selected for beauty and grace, they would have shone in any ballroom of the land.
Some were slender, some plump. There were black eyes, brown and blue. There were heads of black, brown and golden hue. The costumes, too, were varied. All were of the filmiest of fabrics and all were gorgeous.
“See!” exclaimed the miracle-working Solomon, spreading his hands wide. “I have brought these here that I may see you dancing with them. I wish to know how you fit in; how you will appear before them all.”
“Ah, poor me!” The little French girl covered her face. “Who am I that I should dance before these so beautiful ones?”
“Come!” said the fairy godfather who had suddenly arrived in their midst. “It is for you only to do your dances as I have seen you here. Yes, and I once did over in the old Blackmoore. Ah, yes, I was a spy. I saw you dance, and how very well you did it, too.”
Jeanne wondered with a thrill whether he could have bribed some one to admit him to the theatre on one of those nights when she danced to the God of Fire alone.
“Let us see.” Solomon allowed his glance to fall upon the circle of dancers. “Perhaps we can find something you all know. Then you can do it together.”
He named one well known dance after another; this one from light opera and that from grand opera, without success until he came to the polka from The Bartered Bride.
At once all eyes shone. Even Dan Baker was prepared to do his part, and Swen to have a try at the music.
Never was the beautiful dance performed in such unusual surroundings. And seldom has it been done so well.
When the last graceful swing was executed, when whirling gowns were still, and the company had gathered in a circle before the fire with the girls reposing in colorful groups on his beloved rugs, and the men standing about, Angelo caught a long breath, and murmured:
“Perfect!”
“This,” said Solomon in a voice that trembled slightly, “is a great moment. The best, in a great profession, I have met. The result is beauty beyond compare, and a light opera that will outshine the sun.”
“But the playhouse.” Angelo strove to bring him down to earth.
“The house? The most beautiful in the city. Where else? The Civic Theatre. You know the place.”
“Know it?” How well he knew that place of beauty, that palace of gold and old rose!
“But—but you forget,” he stammered. “It is only for occasional things; recitals, Shakespeare, the very unusual affairs!”
“And this,” said Solomon, clapping him on the back, “This, my boy, will be the most unusual of all! We may remain as long as we are good. And we shall be good forever.
“But I promised to bring these ladies back promptly.” He sprang into action. “Come! Coats on! And let’s be away.”
Though the ladies of the Junior Ballet were rushed into coats and fairly pushed down the stairs to waiting taxis, not one of them failed to pause and give Jeanne a hug and a smile or a whispered word of congratulation.
“How different!” she thought as a great lump came into her throat. “How very different from Eve and her circle!”
“Here!” Solomon turned from hurrying the girls away. “This will act as a binder. Be here to-morrow at nine.” He thrust something into Angelo’s hand.
Angelo opened his hand after a time and spread out five fifty dollar bills.
“One for you, and you, and you, and you,” he chanted as he dealt them out, finally cramming one into his own pocket.
“Sit down,” he invited. “This is an hour for silent thanksgiving.”
“And prayer,” the devout French girl murmured softly.
They had been sitting thus in absolute silence for some time when, with a rush that brought in a wave of cold air, Florence burst into the room.
“Oh, Florence! My own!” Jeanne cried, throwing herself into the big girl’s arms. “To-night fairies and angels and godfathers have been here and for you and me the world begins once more to roll round and round just as it used to do!”
“Steady there!” said Angelo soberly. “We have another opportunity to make good. That is all. We must all do our very best. We must guard our steps well. Then, perhaps, all our dreams will come true.”
A few minutes later, a sober but joyous company, they parted for the night.
As Jeanne left the room she allowed her eyes to stray to the corner where rested the three traveling bags. She heaved a great sigh of relief and crowded her life saving fifty dollar bill deeper into her small purse. She had not been obliged to sell the treasures of a friend, and for this she was more thankful than for her own good fortune.
But would this friend ever come for his property? She wondered.
As they made their way through the driving snow to the street car Florence thought she caught a glimpse of a dark, bulky figure following in the shadows. Seizing Petite Jeanne by the arm she hurried along.
A car came rolling up on the padded snow just as they arrived. Soon they were stowed away in its warm depths. Not, however, until Florence had noted that the bulky figure was a large man in a green overcoat.
“We lost him,” she thought with some satisfaction.
She was wrong. As they rose to leave the car she saw, seated at the back, that same man. She knew in an instant who he was. For ten seconds her brain whirled. She was obliged to grip the edge of a seat for support.
Regaining control of herself she passed out without so much as glancing in his direction.
To her surprise the man did not follow.
“May not have recognized us.” This was more a wish than a hope.
Hurrying across the street they mounted to their room.
“Um-m! How cozy!” she exclaimed. “Let’s not put the light on for awhile.”
Stepping to the window, she saw the car stop at the next crossing. A man got off.
Turning, he walked back in the direction in which he had come.
“He will ring our bell,” she told herself in a small panic. “And then?”
But he did not ring. After a tremulous ten minutes of waiting, she whispered to herself:
“Came back for our street number. That’s bad. Angelo was right. The fight of Maxwell Street is not our fight.”
The man in the green overcoat was the one who had started the riot on Maxwell Street by nearly running Jeanne down in his big car, and who had come to grief later.
“We’ll be long in knowing the last of that!” she told herself, and she was right.
No fairy princess, waving magic wand, could have wrought a more perfect change than came over Petite Jeanne and her beloved companions after that hour which the rather ugly Jew with the soul of an Abraham, a Moses and a David all wrapped in one, spent in their studio. It was by this man that they were guided out of the wilderness of doubt and despair into the land of joy and hope. By him, too, they were, on the very next morning, ushered into the most magnificent little theatre Jeanne’s glowing eyes had ever looked upon.
Unlike the Old Blackmoore, it was new. Its bright colors shone gayly forth. Its seats of velvet, its curtains of heavy velour and all its trimmings were perfect.
“How beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed, as Solomon threw open the door revealing it all.
“And yet,” she sighed after a time, “poor, shabby old Blackmoore! I did so want to hear its walls ring once more with laughter and applause.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the good Solomon. “When a place is full of rats it should be torn down. Why do people live in such places—work in them, play in them? Is it not because they themselves are slow, stupid, without the will to tear themselves away from it all?
“At any rate,” he added quickly, “here is your grand opportunity. Make the most of it, my child.”
“Oh, yes. That I will. Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand, million times, yes!”
And did she? Never had there been a time in her whole life when she worked so hard as on the days that followed. No director with a gray steel face was here; no brass rail where she must twist her toes in agony; no Eve, lacking in imagination, endeavoring to teach where she herself should be taught. Yet there were compelling forces driving her on. Love, friendship, hope, the determination to win; these are the great, beautiful masters that ever lead us on to nobler and stronger lives.
Success was not assured. Far from that. The Junior Ballet was, after all, little more than an advanced class in a great school. Chosen from the best of young dancers, they were constantly in training so that in some dim, distant time they might perhaps take their place by ones, twos and threes in the ballet of some great opera company. Beautiful they were, to be sure. Grace was theirs, too. But seasoned troupers they were not. For this reason there would not be the snap and precision in their dancing that could be found in a modern chorus. Would youth and natural beauty replace this? Even Solomon wrinkled his brow when the question was asked.
“They will!” Jeanne clenched her hands hard. “They must!”
This was her great opportunity. Still more important, it was Dan Baker’s opportunity.
“I have youth. I have time to win success,” she assured herself. “But for him it is now. Now, or not at all.”
Whenever she thought of this she threw herself with renewed zest into her work.
The light opera, too, was found to be crude and unfinished in spots. What opera is not? Solomon suggested changes. They were made.
Then one day, after they had been working for a week, a beautiful creature entered from another world. She came sauntering down a narrow corridor which Jeanne had seen leading away from the left side of the stage but had never dared to follow.
This creature was a woman. Jeanne knew from her manner that she was no longer in her twenties; yet her beautiful face did not show it. Like Jeanne, she was fair with golden hair. She wore, draped over her shoulders, a cape of royal purple trimmed with white fox. Beneath the cape showed a curious costume. Made of some soft cloth, it appeared to belong to another age, for it was neither the costume of man nor woman. There was a suggestion of a dress that might, after all, be a long coat. And there were trousers fitting like stockings, and curious, bright colored shoes.
With no apology for her strange make-up, she shook hands with Solomon and went to sit with him at the back of the theatre. As the rehearsal progressed she turned from time to time and whispered in the producer’s ear. He listened attentively, nodded, or shook his head and scribbled in his note book.
When it was over the mysterious one made her way to the corridor whence she had come.
“Who was she?” Jeanne asked in an awed whisper. Something in Solomon’s manner suggested that he might have come from a visit with a queen. And so he had—a queen of her own beautiful realm.
“That,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily, “that was our Marjory—Marjory Bryce.”
“Mar—Marjory Bryce!” Jeanne took a step backward. She knew that name. It belonged to the queen of grand opera, known to the great city as Our Marjory.
“But where did she come from?”
“Where but from the Opera House?” He waved a hand at the corridor where the lady from musical fairyland had vanished.
“Is Grand Opera over there?” Jeanne looked her incredulity.
“Did you not know? Come!” He took her hand and led her down that corridor to its end. There he opened a door into a world unknown, a world that in the days to follow was to become a veritable fairyland of beauty, romance and adventure. It was a vast auditorium, much the same as the Civic Theatre, though many times larger.
“So this is the home of Grand Opera!” The place was deserted. Jeanne went whirling away across its vast stage in a wild dance.
“Some day,” she cried, clasping her hands like a child asking for a doll, “may I dance here before all the people?”
“Time alone will tell,” said Solomon soberly. “Art is long. First comes the Civic Theatre. And that is task enough for the present.
“And by the way!” His eyes brightened. “Miss Bryce gave me many valuable suggestions regarding our opera. She is one of the greatest living authorities. No one can play such varied roles as she. With these suggestions, faithfully worked out, we should succeed.”
He led the way back to the Civic Theatre. There Florence awaited Jeanne.
In her dreams that night the little French girl danced upon a stage as long as a city street and strewn with flowers, while an audience of millions screamed their approval.
“That,” she told herself as she sat up, rubbing her eyes, “was a strange dream. Of course it will never come true. All the same, in our little theatre, surrounded by my own beloved Golden Circle—ah, well, we shall see!”
Her glorious Golden Circle; this is what the fellow members of her cast were coming to be. How different was the atmosphere of this new setting from that of the old Blackmoore.
“Of course,” she whispered charitably, “the Blackmoore was a horrible shell of a place. And it is easier to be happy and kind in beautiful surroundings. And yet I am sure that some of the most wonderful circles of friendship are found in the west side tenement region.” She was thinking of the blue-eyed Merry’s Golden Circle.
“Surely their lot is hard enough,” she told herself. “And yet they are happy in their own little circles.
“What a sad place this grim old city would be,” she philosophized, “if it were not for the thousands upon thousands of these little golden circles of friendship we find everywhere! Sometimes it is a group that meets periodically in a pool room or a drug store. There are tiny club rooms everywhere. The people who work long days in downtown stores call one another Mary, Bob and Tom. They, too, are happy as they feel their tiny golden circle bind them round and round.
“But not one of them all,” she exclaimed loyally, “can boast of a more wonderful circle than ours!”
She thought of the Junior Ballet, those beautiful, talented young women who were being trained as her chorus. Their caresses and words of encouragement on that first night were not flattery. Every day, by little acts of kindness and courtesy, they proved this. They also bestowed their affections upon the old trouper, Dan Baker.
“And how I love them for that!” the little French girl said fervently.
“And yet, who would not love him? His gray hair, his brooding blue eyes, his gentle, kindly manner toward all; how could anyone resist them?”
Soon enough she was to learn that there were those who could resist the old trouper’s kindly good nature. She was to learn, too, that this gentle old man held within his heart the courage of a soldier, the will and the power, if need be, to become a martyr for the right.
It was on that very evening that, as they loafed and talked over tea and toast in the studio, Dan Baker was called to the telephone, and Petite Jeanne heard him use language that she had believed quite foreign to his tongue.
“What’s that?” she heard him say. “A fund for actors? I have subscribed to the Fund for Aged Actors, yes. Yes. What’s that? Another fund? Five hundred dollars? Impossible!
“You will!” She saw his face turn red. His hands twisted themselves into livid knots. “Say, you! I know who you are now. It’s a racket! You’re trying to shake me down. You’ll never do it! Good-bye!”
He slammed the receiver down on the hook and stood there until the hot blood drained from his face and left him white as marble. Watching him, Jeanne saw him totter. Thinking he was about to fall she hurried up to encircle him with her slender arms.
“What is it, old trouper?” she asked gently.
“It—why, it’s nothing.”
“Please don’t lie to me,” she pleaded. “One has no need to lie to a friend.”
“Well, then, if you must have it.” On his face a curious smile formed itself. “There’s a racket been going on in this town for a long time. My old friend Barney Bobson told me about it.
“You see,” he explained, leading her back to the fire, “most actors are nervous, temperamental people. They can’t stand suspense, lurking danger and all that. These crooks, knowing that, have taken to demanding sums of money for what they term a good cause: The Actors’ Benefit. They are the only actors benefited, and they are not actors at all, but deep-dyed villains. They have reaped a harvest.
“But here—” He threw back his shock of gray hair. “Here is one golden harvest that will never be reaped. I’d rather die. I’m an old man. What’s a year more or less? How wonderful to go out like a candle; providing you go for a good cause!”
As Jeanne looked at him it seemed to her that his face was lit with a strange glory.
“But what will they do?” she asked. “And why do they come to you before the opera has gone on the stage?”
“They know we have had some advances; can perhaps get others. The opera may be a failure; at least that’s what they think. Now is the time to strike.”
“And if you continue to refuse?”
“I may meet them on a dark night. Or—” His face turned gray. “Or they may kidnap you.”
“Kidnap me?”
“Sometimes villains work through our friends to undo their victims,” he replied wearily. “You must be very careful. Never go out on the street without your capable Florence. And never walk when you can use a cab. So, I think you will be safe.
“There!” he exclaimed, noting the wrinkles in her brow. “I have got you worrying. Do not think of it again. Those men are cowards. All evil doers are. We will not hear from them again.”
“No, no! Dear old trouper,” Jeanne said in the gentlest of tones, “I was not thinking of myself, but of you.
“However,” she added a moment later, “I shall be careful.”
Florence, in her big-hearted way, had given up her work at the settlement house and, casting her lot with the others, had once more become the little French girl’s stage “mother” and protector. She also became the guardian of his Majesty the God of Fire. And it seemed to her that he was quite as much in need of mothering as his youthful possessor. For was there not a dark-faced gypsy lurking, as she sometimes imagined, in every dark corner, ready at any moment to spring upon her and snatch her strange treasure away?
She had fitted up a Boston bag with a chain, ending in a lock, run through the leather and clamping the top tight. This she carried when the ancient God of Fire, in pursuance of his art as a silent actor, was obliged to make his way from their room to the theatre and back again. At all other times his Highness continued to remain in hiding in the hole beneath the floor of the room.
At times Florence thought of the red-faced man, their chance enemy of Maxwell Street, the one who on that stormy night had apparently ridden half way across the city in order to take down their street address.
“He’s planning some meanness,” she assured herself. “What it will be only time can tell.”
When Petite Jeanne told her of the threat made to the old trouper over the telephone, she redoubled her vigil. They traveled only in taxicabs, and kept a sharp watch on every occasion. One other change was made by the stout young guardian. Whenever the gypsy god went with them she carried beneath her arm a rather heavy, paper-bound package, whose contents were her secret.
The Grand Opera house became a veritable fairyland of adventure for Petite Jeanne. In this place and in her own little theatre she felt herself to be in a place of refuge. There were guards about. Entrance to the place was only to be gained through long, tortuous ways of red tape and diplomacy. No dark-faced gypsy, no would-be kidnaper could enter here. Thus she reasoned and sighed with content. Was she right? We shall see.
One afternoon, when a brief rehearsal of some small parts was over, not expecting Florence for a half hour or more, she gathered up her possession, her precious God of Fire, and tripping down the hallway arrived before the door that led to the land of magic, the great stage of the Opera.
Several times she had made her way shyly down this hall to open the door and peer into the promised land beyond. She had found it to be a place of magnificent transformations. Now it was a garden, now a castle, now a village green, and now, reverting to form, it was but a vast empty stage with a smooth board floor.
It was on this day only a broad space. Not a chair, not a shred of scenery graced the stage.
“How vast it is!” she whispered, as she looked in. She had been told that this stage would hold fifteen hundred people.
“What a place to dance all alone!”
The notion tickled her fancy. There was no one about. Slipping silently through the door, she removed her shoes; then, with the god still under her arm, she went tripping away to the front center of the stage. There, having placed her god in position, she drew a long breath and began to dance.
It was a delicate bit of a fantastic dance she was doing. As she danced on, with the dark seats gaping at her, the place seemed to come to life. Every seat was filled. The place was deathly silent. She was nearing the end of her dance. One moment more—and what then? The thunder of applause?
So real had this bit of fancy become to her that she clasped her hand to her heart in wild exultation.
But suddenly for a fraction of time that racing heart stood still. Something terrible was happening. She all but lost her balance, spun round, grew suddenly dizzy and barely escaped falling. The end of a large section of the floor, had risen a foot above the level of the stage! It was still rising.
Her mind in a whirl, she sprang from the tilting floor to the level space just beyond.
But horror of horrors! This also began to tilt at a rakish angle. At the same time she realized in consternation that the Fire God was in danger of gliding down the section on which he rested and falling into the pit of inky blackness below.
Risking her own neck, she sprang back to her former position, seized the god and went dashing away across section after section of madly rocking floors, to tumble at last into some one’s arms.
This someone was beyond the door in the hallway. Realizing dimly that only the stage floor and not the whole building was doing an earthquake act, she gripped her breast to still the wild beating of her heart and then looked into the face of her protector. Instantly her heart renewed its racing. The woman who held her tightly clasped was none other than the one who, in a cape of royal purple and white fox, had sat beside Solomon and witnessed their rehearsal—Marjory Bryce, the greatest prima donna the city had ever known. And she was laughing.
“Please forgive me!” she said after her mirth had subsided. “You looked so much like Liza crossing the ice with the child in her arms.”
“But—but what—” The little French dancer was still confused and bewildered.
“Don’t you understand, child?” The prima donna’s tone was soft and kindly as a mother’s. Petite Jeanne loved her for it. “The floor is laid in sections. Each section may be raised or lowered by lifts beneath it. That is for making lakes, mountains, great stairways and many other things. Just now they are making a mountain; just for me. To-night I sing. Would you like to watch them? Have you time? It is really quite fascinating.”
“I—I’d love to.”
“Then come. Let us sit right here.” She drew a narrow bench from a hidden recess. “This section will not be lifted. We may remain here in safety.”
In an incredibly short time they saw the stage transformed into a giant stairway. After that, from somewhere far above the stage, dangling from ropes, various bits of scenery drifted down. Seized by workmen, these bits were fitted into their places and—
“Behold! Here is magic for you!” exclaimed the prima donna. “Here we have a mountain.”
As Petite Jeanne moved to the front of the stage she found herself facing a mountainside with slopes of refreshing green. A winding path led toward its summit. At the top of the path were the stone steps of a palace.
“Come,” said her enchantress, “Come to the castle steps and rest with me for a time.”
As Jeanne followed her up the winding path she felt that she truly must be in fairyland. “And with such a guide!” she breathed.
“Now,” said the prima donna, drawing her down to a place beside herself, “we may sit here and tell secrets, or fortunes, or what would you like?” She laughed a merry laugh.
“Do you know,” she said as her mood changed, “you are really very like me in many ways? I sing in parts you might take without a make-up. I, who am very old,” she laughed once more, “I must be made up for them very much indeed.”
“Oh, no, surely not!” the little French dancer exclaimed. “You are very young.”
“Thank you, little girl.” The prima donna placed a hand upon her knee. “None of us wish to grow old. We would remain young forever and ever in this bright, beautiful and melodious world.
“I saw you dancing here this afternoon,” she went on after a moment’s silence.
Jeanne started.
“Was it very terrible?”
“Oh, no. It was beautiful, exquisite!” The prima donna’s eyes shone with a frank truthfulness. Jeanne could not doubt. It made her feel all hot and cold inside.
“Would you like to dance before all that?” The smiling woman spread her arms wide. “All those seats filled with people?”
“Oh, yes!” Jeanne caught her breath sharply.
“It is really quite simple,” the lady went on. “You look up at the people, then you look back at the stage and at the ones who are to act or sing with you. Then you say: ‘I have only to do it all quite naturally, as if they, the people in the seats, were not there at all. If I do that they will be pleased. And when I succeed in doing that, they like me.’
“So you think you’d enjoy it,” she went on musingly.
“Oh, yes; but—but not yet,” the little girl cried. “Sometime in the dreamy future. Now I want my own stage in my own sweet little theatre, and I want to be with just my own little Golden Circle.”
“Brave girl!” The prima donna seized her hand and squeezed it tight. “You are indeed wise for your years.
“But you said ‘with my own little Golden Circle.’ What is this circle?”
Jeanne explained as best she could.
“My child,” said her illustrious friend, “you have discovered a great truth. You know the secret of happiness. Or do you? What is it that makes us happy?”
“Doing things for others.”
“Ah, that is but half of it! You know the rest, but you do not tell me. The other part is to allow others to do things for you. Doing things for others and refusing to accept benefits in return is the most selfish unselfishness the world knows.
“Ah, but your Golden Circle! What a beautiful name!
“Tell me,” she demanded quite suddenly, after a moment of silence, “Do they say that I am a great prima donna?”
“They tell me,” said Jeanne quite frankly, “that you are the greatest of all.”
“But they do not tell you that I have a great voice?”
“N—no.” The dancer’s eyes and her tone told her reluctance.
“Ah, no,” the great one sighed, “they will never say that! It would not be true.
“But if they say I am great,” again her mood changed, “if they say it in truth, that is because I have always had your Golden Circle in the back of my poor little head; because I have striven ever and always, not for my success but for our success—for the success of the whole company, from the least to the greatest.
“You have learned at a very tender age, my child, that this alone brings true success and lasting happiness.”
For a time they sat in silence. Changes were taking place all about them, but the little French girl was not at all conscious of them. She was wrapped in her own thoughts.
“But what is this curious thing you have at your side?” her companion asked soberly.
“That? Why—oh, that is the gypsy God of Fire.” Seeing the prima donna’s eyes light with sudden interest, she went on. “He fell from some planet, to the land of India. There, beneath the palms, the gypsy folk worshiped him before they came to Europe. After that they brought him to France. And now I have him,” she ended quite simply.
“But how did you come into possession of so rare a treasure?”
Jeanne told her.
“But why do you not keep him locked away in a vault?”
“Because without him I cannot do my dances as they should be done. It is he who inspires me.”
“Ah!” sighed the great one. “I, too, once believed in fairies and goblins, in angels and curious gods.”
“I shall always believe,” the little French girl whispered.
“You have one good angel in whom you may believe to your heart’s content. He is a very substantial angel and not very beautiful to look upon; but he is beautiful inside. And that is all that counts.”
“You mean Mr. Solomon?”
“Yes. I have known him a long time. You are very fortunate.”
“And to think—he is a Jew. I used to believe—”
“Yes, I know. So did most of us believe that Jews had no hearts, that they were greedy for gold. That is true sometimes; it may be said of any race. But there are many wonderful men and women of that race. Perhaps no race has produced so many.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange!” Petite Jeanne mused. “There we are, all working together, all striving for the success of one thing, our light opera. And yet we are of many races. Angelo is Italian; Swen a Swede; Dan Baker very much American; Mr. Solomon is a Jew and he has found me a very handsome young stage lover who is very English, who has a golden voice and perfect manners. And poor me, I am all French. So there we are.”
“Very strange indeed, but quite glorious. When we all learn that races and names, countries, complexions and tongues do not count, but only the hearts that beat beneath the jackets of men, then we shall begin to succeed.”
“Ah, yes! Succeed!” Jeanne’s voice went quite sober again. Unconsciously she was yielding to influences outside herself. As they sat there on the stage mountainside a change had been taking place. So gradually had it come that she had not noticed it. In the beginning, all about them had been stage daylight, though none the less real. Gradually, moment by moment shadows had lengthened; the shades of evening had fallen; darkness was now all but upon them. Only dimly could they discern the difference between gray paths and green mountainsides.
“Success,” Jeanne murmured once more. “There are times when I feel that it will come to us. And we all want it so much. We have worked so hard. You know, we tried once before.”
“In the old Blackmoore?”
“Yes. And we failed.”