CAUGHT IN THE ACT
And on that new day, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds
after a storm, there came to Jeanne an hour of speechless joy.
Having exercised as ever her gift of friendship to all mankind, she was
able, through her acquaintance with the watchman, to enter the opera
house when she chose. There was only one drawback to this; she must enter
always as Pierre and never as Petite Jeanne.
Knowing that some sort of rehearsal would be in progress, she garbed
herself in her Pierre costume and repaired to the place which to her, of
all places on earth, seemed the home of pure enchantment--the opera.
Even now, when the seats were clothed like ghosts in white sheets, when
the aisles, so often adorned with living models all a-glitter with silks
and jewels, and echoing with the sound of applause and laughter, were
dark and still, the great hall lost none of its charm.
As she tripped noiselessly down the foyer where pillars cut from some
curious stone flanked her on every side and priceless chandeliers hung
like blind ghosts far above her head, she thought of the hundreds who had
promenaded here displaying rich furs, costly silks and jewels. She
recalled, too, the remark of that strangely studious man with a beard:
"It is a form of life."
"I wonder what he meant?" she said half aloud. "Perhaps some day I shall
meet him again. If I do, I shall ask him."
But Jeanne was no person to be living in the past. She dreamed of the
future when only dreams were at her command. For her the vivid, living,
all-entrancing _present_ was what mattered most. She had not haunted the
building long before she might have been found curled up in a seat among
the dark shadows close to the back row on the orchestra floor. She had
pushed the white covering away, but was still half hidden by it; she
could be entirely hidden in a second's time if she so willed.
Behind and above her, black chasms of darkness, the boxes and balconies
loomed. Before her the stage, all dark, seemed a mysterious cave where a
hundred bandits might hide among the settings of some imposing scene.
She did not know the name of the opera to be rehearsed on this particular
afternoon. Who, then, can describe the stirring of her blood, the
quickening of her heart-beats, the thrill that coursed through her very
being when the first faint flush of dawn began appearing upon the scene
that lay before her? A stage dawn it was, to be sure; but very little
less than real it was, for all that. In this matchless place of amusement
shades of light, pale gray, blue, rosy red, all come creeping out, and
dawn lingers as it does upon hills and forests of earth and stone and
wood.
Eagerly the little French girl leaned forward to catch the first glimpse
of that unknown scene. Slowly, slowly, but quite surely, to the right a
building began looming out from that darkness. The trunk of a tree
appeared, another and yet another. Dimly a street was outlined. One by
one these objects took on a clearer line until with an impulsive
movement, Jeanne fairly leaped from her place.
"It is France!" she all but cried aloud. "My own beloved France! And the
opera! It is to be 'The Juggler of Notre Dame'! Was there ever such
marvelous good fortune!"
It was indeed as if a will higher than her own had planned all this, for
this short opera was the one Jeanne had studied. It was this opera, as
you will remember from reading _The Golden Circle_, that Jeanne had once
witnessed quite by chance as she lay flat upon the iron grating more than
a hundred feet above the stage.
"And now I shall see Marjory Dean play in it once more," she exulted.
"For this is a dress rehearsal, I am sure of that."
She was not long in discovering that her words were true. Scarcely had
the full light of day shone upon that charming stage village, nestled
among the hills of France, than a company of peasants, men, women and
children, all garbed in bright holiday attire, came trooping upon the
stage.
But what was this? Scarcely had they arrived than one who loitered behind
began shouting in the most excited manner and pointing to the road that
led back to the hills.
"The juggler is coming," Jeanne breathed. "The juggler of Notre Dame."
She did not say Marjory Dean, who played the part. She said: "the
juggler," because at this moment she lived again in that beautiful
village of her native land. Once again she was a gypsy child. Once more
she camped at the roadside. With her pet bear and her friend, the
juggler, she marched proudly into the village to dance for pennies before
the delighted crowd in the village square.
What wonder that Petite Jeanne knew every word of this charming opera by
heart? Was it not France as she knew it? And was not France her native
land?
Breathing deeply, clutching now and then at her heart to still its wild
beating, she waited and watched. A second peasant girl followed the first
to the roadside. She too called and beckoned. Others followed her. And
then, with a burst of joyous song, their gay garments gleaming like a bed
of flowers, their faces shining, these happy villagers came trooping
back. And in their midst, bearing in one hand a gay, colored hoop, in the
other a mysterious bag of tricks, was the juggler of Notre Dame.
"It is Marjory Dean, Marjory herself. She is the juggler," Jeanne
whispered. She dared not trust herself to do more. She wanted to leap to
her feet, to clap her hands and cry: "Ray! Ray! Ray! _Vive! Vive! Vive!_"
But no, this would spoil it all. She must see this beautiful story
through to its end.
So, calming herself, she settled back to see the juggler, arrayed in his
fantastic costume, open his bag of tricks. She saw him delight his
audience with his simple artistry.
She watched, breathless, as a priest, coming from the monastery, rebuked
him for practicing what he believed to be a sinful art. She suffered with
the juggler as he fought a battle with his soul. When he came near to the
door of the monastery that, being entered, might never again be
abandoned, she wished to rise and shout:
"No! No! Juggler! Stay with the happy people in the bright sunshine. Show
them more of your art. Life is too often sad. Bring joy to their lives!"
She said, in reality, nothing. When at last the curtain fell, she was
filled with one desire: to be for one short hour the juggler of Notre
Dame. She knew the words of his song; had practiced his simple tricks.
"Why not? Sometime--somewhere," she breathed.
"Sometime? Somewhere?" She realized in an instant that no place could be
quite the same to her as this one that in all its glories of green and
gold surrounded her now.
When the curtain was up again the stage scene remained the same; but the
gay peasants, the juggler, were gone.
After some moments of waiting Jeanne realized that this scene had been
set for the night's performance, that this scene alone would be rehearsed
upon the stage.
"They are gone! It is over!" How empty her life seemed now. It was as if
a great light had suddenly gone out.
Stealing from her place, she crept down the aisle, entered a door and
emerged at last upon a dark corner of the stage.
For a moment, quite breathless, she stood there in the shadows, watching,
listening.
"There is no one," she breathed. "I am alone."
An overpowering desire seized her to don the juggler's costume, to sing
his songs, to do his tricks. The costume was there, the bag of tricks.
Why not?
Pausing not a second, she crept to the center of the stage, seized the
coveted prizes, then beat a hasty retreat.
Ten minutes later, dancing lightly and singing softly, she came upon the
stage. She was there alone. Yet, in her mind's eye she saw the villagers
of France, matrons and men, laughing lovers, dancing children, all before
her as, casting her bag upon the green, she seized some trifling baubles
and began working her charms.
For her, too, the seats were not dark, covered empties, but filled with
human beings, filled with the light and joy of living.
Of a sudden she seemed to hear the reproving words of the priest.
Turning about, with sober face, she stood before the monastery door.
And then, like some bird discovered in a garden, she wanted to run away.
For there, in very life, a little way back upon the vast stage, stood all
the peasants of the opera. And in their midst, garbed in street attire,
was Marjory Dean!
"Who are you? How do you dare tamper with my property, to put on my
costume?" Marjory Dean advanced alone.
There was sternness in her tone. But there was another quality besides.
Had it not been for this, Jeanne might have crumpled in a helpless heap
upon the stage. As it was, she could only murmur in her humblest manner:
"I--I am only an usher. See!" She stripped off the juggler's garb, and
stood there in black attire. "Please do not be too hard. I have harmed
nothing. See! I will put it all back." This, with trembling fingers, she
proceeded to do. Then in the midst of profound silence, she retreated
into the shadows.
She had barely escaped from the stage into the darkness of the opera pit
when a figure came soft-footedly after her.
She wished to flee, but a voice seemed to whisper, "Stay!"
The word that came ten seconds after was, "Wait! You can't deceive me.
You are Petite Jeanne!"
It was the great one, Marjory Dean, who spoke.
"Why, how--how could you know?" Jeanne was thrown into consternation.
"Who could not know? If one has seen you upon the stage before, he could
not be mistaken.
"But, little girl," the great one's tone was deep and low like the mellow
chimes of a great clock, "I will not betray you.
"You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better.
And you, Jeanne, are much like me. A little make-up, and there you are,
Petite Jeanne, who is Marjory Dean. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you
to take my place, to do this first act for me, before all this." She
spread her arms wide as if to take in a vast audience.
"No!" Jeanne protested. "I could never do that. Never! Marjory Dean,
I--no! No!"
She broke off to stare into the darkness. No one was there!
"I could almost believe I imagined it," she told herself.
"And yet--no! It was true. She said it. Marjory Dean said that!"
Little wonder, then, that all the remaining hours of that day found on
her fair face a radiance born, one might say, in Heaven.
Many saw that face and were charmed by it. The little rich girl saw it as
Jeanne performed her humble duties as Pierre. She was so taken by it
that, with her father's consent, she invited Pierre to visit her at her
father's estate next day. And Pierre accepted. And that, as you well may
guess, leads to quite another story.