THE UNSEEN EYE
Five days passed. Uneventful days they were for Petite Jeanne; yet each
one was charged with possibilities both wonderful and terrible. She saw
no more of Marjory Dean. What of her promise? Had she forgotten?
The little old lady of the cameo she visited once. The Chinese gentleman
who might secure for her one more shuddering look at the magic curtain
was out of town.
Never did she enter the opera at night without casting fearful glances
about lest she encounter the dark-faced man of the evil eye. He was never
there. Where was he? Who was he? What interest could he have in a mere
boy usher of the opera? To these questions the little French girl could
form no answer.
There were times when she believed him a gypsy, or at least a descendant
of gypsies from France. When she thought of this she shuddered anew. For
in France were many enemies of Bihari's band. And she was one of that
band.
At other times she was able to convince herself that she had seen this
dark-faced one at the back of the boxes on that night when the priceless
pearls had vanished. Yet how this could be when Jaeger, the detective,
and the mysterious lady in black haunted those same shadows, she could
not imagine.
Of late Jaeger was not always there. Perhaps he was engaged in other
affairs. It might be that on that very night Jeanne had seen him follow
the dark-faced one, he had made an important arrest. If so, whom had he
apprehended, the dark-faced one or the little Frenchman with a military
bearing?
Jeanne could not but believe that the little man from France was honest
and sincere, that he truly bore an important message for her.
"But why then did he not come that night and deliver it?" she said to
Florence.
"Perhaps he lost his way."
"Lost his way? How could he? He was here, just across the way."
"You say two men followed him?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Then he may have been frightened off."
"If so, why did he not return?"
"Who can say?"
Ah, yes, who could? Certainly no one, for no one knew the full truth,
which was that in her excitement Jeanne had mixed her numbers and,
instead of presenting him with her own address, had sent him five blocks
down the street where, as one must know, he found no little French girl
named Petite Jeanne. So here is one matter settled, straight off. But
what of the business-like little Frenchman? Did he truly bear a message
of importance? If so, what was the message? And where was the man now?
Not so easy to answer, these questions.
Jeanne asked herself these questions and many more during these days
when, as Pierre, she served the occupants of the boxes faithfully, at the
same time drinking in all the glory and splendor of music, color and
drama that is Grand Opera at its best.
A glimpse now and then of the lady in black lurking in deep shadows never
failed to thrill her. Never did she see her face. Not once did there come
to her a single intimation of the position she filled at the opera. As
she felt that unseen eye upon her, Jeanne experienced a strange
sensation. She went hot and cold all over. Then a great calm possessed
her.
"It is the strangest thing!" she exclaimed to Florence one night. "It is
like--what would you call it?--a benediction. I am dreadfully afraid; yet
I find peace. It is like, shall I say, like seeing God? Should you be
afraid of God if you saw Him?"
"Yes, I think I might," Florence answered soberly.
"Yet they say God is Love. Why should one fear Love?"
"Who knows? Anyway, your friend is not God. She is only a lady in black.
Perhaps she is not Love either. Her true name may be Hate."
"Ah, yes, perhaps. But I feel it is not so. And many times, oh my friend,
when I _feel_ a thing is so it _is_ so. But when I just think it is true,
then it is not true at all. Is this not strange?"
"It is strange. But you gypsies are strange anyway."
"Ah, yes, perhaps. For all that, I am not all gypsy. Once I was not gypsy
at all, only a little French girl living in a little chateau by the side
of the road."
"Petite Jeanne," Florence spoke with sudden earnestness, "have you no
people living in France?"
"My father is dead, this I know." The little French girl's head drooped.
"My mother also. I have no brothers nor sisters save those who adopted me
long ago in a gypsy van. Who else can matter?"
"Uncles and aunts, cousins, grandparents?"
"Ah, yes." The little French girl's brow clouded. "Now I remember. There
was one--we called her grandmother. Was she? I wonder. We play that so
many things are true, we little ones. I was to see her twice. She was,
oh, so grand!" She clasped her hands as if in a dream. "Lived at the edge
of a wood, she did, a great black forest, in a castle.
"A very beautiful castle it was to look at on a sunny day, from the
outside. Little towers and spires, many little windows, all round and
square.
"But inside?" She made a face and shuddered. "Oh, so very damp and cold!
No fires here. No lights there. Only a bit of a brazier that burned
charcoal, very bright and not warm at all. A grandmother? A castle? Ah,
yes, perhaps. But who wants so grand a castle that is cold? Who would
wish for a grandmother who did not bend nor smile?
"And besides," she added, as she sank into a chair, "she may not have
been my grandmother at all. This was long ago. I was only a little one."
"All the same," Florence muttered to herself, some time later, "I'd like
to know if that was her grandmother. It might make a difference, a very
great difference."