FROM THE HEIGHTS TO DESPAIR
"To-day," said Marjory Dean, as they came out upon the dimly lighted
stage, "as you will see," she glanced about her where the setting of a
French village was to be seen "we are to rehearse 'The Juggler of Notre
Dame.' And to-day, if you have the courage, you may play the juggler in
my stead."
"Oh!" Jeanne's breath came short and quick. Her wild heartbeats of
anticipation had not been in vain.
"But the company!" she exclaimed in a low whisper. "Shall they know?"
"They will not be told. Many will guess that something unusual is
happening. But they all are good sports. And besides they are all of
my--what is it you have called it?--my 'Golden Circle.'"
"Yes, yes, your 'Golden Circle.'"
"And those of our 'Golden Circle' never betray us. It is an unwritten
law."
"Ah!" Jeanne breathed deeply. "Can I do it?"
"Certainly you can. And perhaps, on the very next night when the
'Juggler' is done--oh, well, you know."
"Yes. I know." Jeanne was fairly choking with emotion.
When, however, half an hour later, garbed as the juggler with his hoop
and his bag of tricks, she came before the troop of French villagers of
the drama, she was her own calm self. For once again as in a dream, she
trod the streets of a beautiful French village. As of yore she danced
before the boisterous village throng.
Only now, instead of stick and bear, she danced with hoop and bag.
She was conscious at once that the members of the company realized that
she was a stranger and not Marjory Dean.
"But I shall show them how a child of France may play her native drama."
At once she lost herself in the character of Jean, the wandering-juggler.
Eagerly she offered to do tricks with cup and balls, to remove eggs from
a hat.
Scorned by the throng, she did not despair.
"I know the hoop dance."
The children of the troop seized her by the hands to drag her about. And
Jeanne, the lithe Jeanne who had so often enthralled thousands by her
fairy-like steps, danced clumsily as the juggler must, then allowed
herself to be abused by the children until she could break away.
"What a glorious company!" she was thinking in the back of her mind. "How
they play up to me!"
"My lords," she cried when once more she was free, "to please you I'll
sing a fine love salvation song."
They paid her no heed. As the juggler she did not despair.
As Jeanne, she saw a movement in a seat close to the opera pit. "An
auditor!" Her heart sank. "What if it is someone who suspects and will
give me away!" There was scant time for these thoughts.
As the juggler she offered songs of battle, songs of conquest, drama. To
all this they cried:
"No! No! Give us rather a drinking song!"
At last yielding to their demand she sang: "Hallelujah, Sing the
Hallelujah of Wine."
Then as the prior descended upon the throng, scattering them like tiny
birds before a gale, she stood there alone, defenseless, as the prior
denounced her.
Real tears were in her eyes as she began her farewell to the glorious
liberty of hedge and field, river, road and forest of France.
This farewell was destined to end unfinished for suddenly a great bass
voice roared:
"What is this? You are not Marjory Dean! Where is she? What are you doing
here?"
A huge man with a fierce black mustache stood towering above her. She
recognized in him the director of the opera, and wished that the section
of the stage beneath her feet might sink, carrying her from sight.
"Here I am," came in a clear, cold tone. It was Marjory Dean who spoke.
She advanced toward the middle of the stage.
Riveted to their places, the members of the company stood aghast. Full
well they knew the fire that lay ever smouldering in Marjory Dean's
breast.
"And what does this mean? Why are you not rehearsing your part?"
"Because," Miss Dean replied evenly, "I chose to allow another, who can
do it quite as well, to rehearse with the company."
"And I suppose," there was bitter sarcasm in the director's voice, "she
will sing the part when that night comes?"
"And if she did?"
"Then, Miss Dean, your services would no longer be required." The man was
purple with rage.
"Very well." Marjory Dean's face went white. "We may as well--"
But Petite Jeanne was at her side. "Miss Dean, you do not know what you
are saying. It is not worth the cost. Please, please!" she pleaded with
tears in her voice. "Please forget me. At best I am only a little French
wanderer. And you, you are the great Marjory Dean!"
Reading the anguish in her upturned face, Marjory Dean's anger was turned
to compassion.
"Another time, another place," she murmured. "I shall never forget you!"
Half an hour later the rehearsal was begun once more. This time Marjory
Dean was in the stellar role. It was a dead rehearsal. All the sparkle of
it was gone. But it was a rehearsal all the same, and the director had
had his way.