A DANCE FOR THE SPIRITS
When Jeanne arrived at the rooms late that night, after her evening among
the opera boxes, she found a half burned out fire in the grate and a
rather amusing note from Florence on the table:
"I am asleep. Do not disturb me." This is how the note ran.
She read the note and smiled. "Poor, dear, big Florence," she murmured.
"How selfish I am! She works hard. Often she needs rest that she does not
get. Yet I am always hoping that she will be here to greet me and to
cheer me with jolly chatter and something warm to drink."
Still in this thoughtful mood, she entered her chamber. She did not
switch on the light at once, but stood looking out of the window.
Somewhat to her surprise, she saw a dark figure lurking in the shadows
across the street.
"Who could it be?" she whispered.
She had little hope of solving this problem when an automobile light
solved it for her and gave her a shock besides. The light fell full upon
the man's face. She recognized him instantly.
"Jaeger!" She said the name out loud and trembled from head to foot.
Jaeger was the detective who haunted the boxes at the opera.
"He is shadowing me!" She could not doubt this. "He believes I stole
those pearls. Perhaps he thinks he can catch me trying them on. Not much
chance of that." She laughed uneasily. "It is well enough to know you are
innocent; but to convince others, that is the problem."
She thought of the lady in black. "If only I could see her, speak to
her!" She drew the shades, threw on the light and disrobed, still in a
thoughtful mood. She was remembering the voice of that lady.
There was something hauntingly familiar about that voice. It brought to
her mind a feeling of forests and rippling waters, the scent of balsam
and the song of birds. Yet she could not tell where she had heard it
before.
Joan of Arc was Jeanne's idol. Once as a child, wandering with the
gypsies, she had slept within the shadows of the church where Joan
received her visions. At another time she had sat for an entire forenoon
dreaming the hours away in the chamber that had once been Joan's own.
Yet, unlike Joan, she did not love wearing the clothes of a boy. She was
fond of soft, clinging, silky things, was this delicate French child. So,
dressed in the silkiest of all silks and the softest of satin robes, she
built herself a veritable mountain of pillows before the fire and,
sinking back into that soft depth, proceeded to think things through.
To this strange girl sitting at the mouth of her cave made of pillows,
the fire on the hearth was a magic fire. She prodded it. As it blazed
red, she saw in it clearly the magic curtain. She felt again the thrill
of this mysterious discovery. Once more she was gazing upon strange
smoking images, bronze eagles, giants' heads, dragons. She smelled the
curious, choking incense. And again the feeling of wild terror seized
her.
So real was the vision that she leaped to her feet, sending the soft
walls of her cave flying in every direction.
Next instant she was in complete possession of her senses. "Why am I
afraid?" she asked herself. "Why was I afraid then? It is but a stage
setting, some Oriental magic."
A thought struck her all of a heap. "Stage setting! That's it!" she
exclaimed in a low whisper. "Why not? What a wonderful setting for some
exotic little touch of Oriental drama!
"I must return to that place. I must see that Magic Curtain once more."
She rearranged the door to her cave. "I must take someone with me. Why
not Marjory Dean?"
The thought pleased her. She mused over it until the fire burned low.
But with the dimming of the coals her spirits ebbed. As she gazed into
the fire she seemed to see a dark and evil face leering at her, the man
who had called to her at the opera door.
Had she seen that same face staring at her on that other occasion when
she slept in the sun on the Robinson estate, she might well have
shuddered more violently. As it was, she asked but a single question:
"Who is he?"
She threw on fuel. The fire flamed up. Once more she was gay as she heard
Marjory Dean whisper those magic words:
"You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better.
Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place."
"Will you?" she cried, stretching her arms wide. "Oh! Will you, Marjory
Dean?"
After this emotional outburst she sat for a long time quite motionless.
"I wonder," she mused after a time, "why this desire should have entered
my heart. Why Grand Opera? I have done Light Opera. I sang. I danced.
They applauded. They said I was marvelous. Perhaps I was." Her head fell
a little forward.
"Ambition!" Her face was lifted to the ceiling. "It is ambition that
drives us on. When I was a child I danced in the country lanes. Then I
must go higher, I must dance in a village; in a small city; in a large
city; in Paris. That so beautiful Paris! And now it must be Grand Opera;
something drives me on."
She prodded the fire and, for the last time that night, it flamed high.
Springing to her feet she cast off her satin robe to go racing across the
floor in the dance of the juggler. Low and clear, her voice rose in a
French song of great enchantment. For a time her delicate, elf-like form
went weaving in and out among the shadows cast by the fire. Then, all of
a sudden, she danced into her chamber. The show, given only for spirits
and fairies, was at an end.
"To-morrow," she whispered low, as her eyes closed for sleep, "to-morrow
there is no opera. I shall not see Marjory Dean, nor Rosemary, nor those
dark-faced ones who dog my steps. To-morrow? Whom shall I see? What
strange new acquaintance shall I make; what adventures come to me?"