THEIR CROWDED HOUR
Petite Jeanne’s one big night was at hand. Already the shadows were
growing long in her modest little sitting room. To-night, for one brief
hour at least, she was to be an actress. How the thought thrilled her! An
actress for an hour. And then?
True, she had acted once upon the stage of the famous Paris Opera. But
that was but a fete, an affair of a single night. To-night much was to be
decided. Would the play go on? Night after night would she dance the
gypsy tarantella under the stage moon? Would these Americans applaud?
“Americans,” she said aloud, as she sat looking away into the gathering
darkness. “After all, how little I know about them.”
“Americans are like all the rest of the world,” Florence replied. “They
love laughter, dancing and song. Then, too, they can feel a pang of pity
and shed a tear. Just dream that you are on the stage of the Paris Opera,
and all will be well.”
Petite Jeanne was not sure. She had suddenly gone quite cold, and was not
a little afraid.
“Green Eyes will be there. She hates me, I fear,” she murmured.
“On the stage, when the great act comes, there will be only Tico and you.
The night, the broken cannons and the moon.”
“Ah, yes.” The little French girl sighed. “I must try to feel it and see
it all as I felt and saw it, a small child in France.”
“In half an hour we must go to the theatre,” said Florence. “We will have
a cup of tea, as we did sometimes when we were in our cabin.”
“If only we were there now,” sighed the little French girl. “Oh, why must
we be ambitious? Why do we struggle so for success and yet more success,
when peace awaits us in some quiet place?”
To this Florence found no answer. She rose to turn on the electric plate
for tea, when the telephone rang.
She went to answer it. Petite Jeanne heard her answer the telephone, but
paid no attention to her conversation until she caught the word gypsy.
Then she sat straight up.
“I must meet her to-night?” Florence was saying. “A gypsy woman? But that
is quite impossible.
“She is being taken to Canada to-night by the officials, you say? But how
can it be necessary for me to see a gypsy? I know no gypsies. Besides, I
can see no one to-night. Believe me—”
Her words were broken in upon by Petite Jeanne. “If it is a gypsy, you
must see her!” The little French girl was pulling at her arm impulsively.
“It is important. It must be. Besides, gypsies, they are my friends. You
must remain here. I will go to the theatre alone.”
One look at Petite Jeanne’s tense face told Florence that she had no
choice in the matter.
“I will see her,” she spoke into the telephone. “Send her over at once.”
They drank their tea in silence. The night was too full of portent for
words.
“Gypsy?” Florence thought. “What can she want of me?”
Then she thought of those gypsies they had seen in the north country. Had
they made their way to Chicago? That was not impossible. And if they had,
what did this woman have to tell?
“Promise me one thing.” Petite Jeanne suddenly leaned toward her. “Bring
that gypsy woman to the play. She is French. She knows the tarantella.
She has known war, as it was in France. I will dance for her. She will
understand.”
“I promise,” Florence replied solemnly.
The moment for Jeanne’s departure arrived. Florence saw her carefully
packed into the car sent from the theatre, then she returned to her room
to wait.
With Jeanne gone, the place seemed strangely still. The clock ticked
solemnly. From somewhere in the distance a fire siren set up a mournful
wail.
“She is too much for me,” she whispered, speaking of Jeanne. “Think of
her forcing me to remain here to meet a ragged gypsy, and this the night
of all nights. And then I must bring that strange person to her show her
first night!”
A knock sounded at the door. She sprang up to open it. A man stood there,
not a woman. For a moment she did not see the woman behind him in the
shadows.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man, “I am an immigration officer. This
woman and her companions entered our country without permission. We found
them in the west side settlement. They must return to Canada. This woman
insisted upon seeing you.” He pushed the short, brown woman into the
light.
Instantly the girl recognized her, and gasped. She was the mother of the
beautiful child that had so narrowly escaped drowning.
“You wished to see me?” she asked as soon as she gained possession of her
voice.
“Yes. You good. You kind. You not bad. Gypsy not forget. I must tell.”
Mystified, Florence motioned her to a seat.
The tale the woman had to tell was a long one, and passing strange. In
her broken tongue, with many repetitions, it was long in the telling.
And all the time the clock was ticking away the moments. Petite Jeanne’s
great hour approached.