THE ARMORED HORSE
As for Jeanne, once more dressed as Pierre and feeling like just no one
at all, she had gone wandering away into the shadows of the orchestra
floor, when suddenly she started. Someone had touched her arm.
Until this moment she had quite forgotten the lone auditor seated there
in the dark. Now as she bent low to look into that person's face she
started again as a name came to her lips.
"Rosemary Robinson!"
"It is I," Rosemary whispered. "I saw it all, Pierre." She held Jeanne's
hand in a warm grasp. "You were wonderful! Simply magnificent! And the
director. He was beastly!"
"No! No!" Jeanne protested. "He was but doing his duty."
"This," Rosemary replied slowly, "may be true. But for all that you are a
marvelous 'Juggler of Notre Dame.' And it is too bad he found out.
"But come!" she whispered eagerly, springing to her feet. "Why weep when
there is so much to be glad about? Let us go exploring!
"My father," she explained, "has done much for this place. I have the
keys to every room. There are many mysteries. You shall see some of
them."
Seizing Jeanne's hand, she led the way along a corridor, down two gloomy
flights of stairs and at last into a vast place where only here and there
a light burned dimly.
They were now deep down below the level of the street. The roar and
thunder of traffic came to them only as a subdued rumble of some giant
talking in his sleep.
The room was immense. Shadows were everywhere, shadows and grotesque
forms.
"Where are we?" Jeanne asked, scarcely able to repress a desire to flee.
"It is one of the property rooms of the Opera House. What will you have?"
Rosemary laughed low and deep. "Only ask for it. You will find it here.
All these things are used at some time or another in the different
operas."
As Jeanne's eyes became accustomed to the pale half-light, she realized
that this must be nearly true. In a corner, piled tight in great dark
sections, was a miniature mountain. Standing on edge, but spilling none
of its make-believe water, was a pond where swans were wont to float.
A little way apart were the swans, resting on great heaps of grass that
did not wither and flowers that did not die.
In a distant corner stood a great gray castle. Someone had set it up,
perhaps to make sure that it was all intact, then had left it standing.
"What a place for mystery!" Jeanne exclaimed.
"Yes, and listen! Do you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"The river. We are far below the river. Listen. Do you not hear it
flowing?"
"I hear only the rumble of traffic."
"Perhaps I only imagine it, but always when I visit this place I seem to
hear the river rushing by. And always I think, 'What if the walls should
crumble?'"
"But they will not crumble."
"We shall hope not.
"But see." The rich girl's mood changed. "Here is a charger! Let us mount
and ride!"
She sprang toward a tall object completely covered by a white cloth. When
the cloth had been dragged off, a great steed all clad in glittering
armor stood before them.
"Come!" Rosemary's voice rose high. "Here we are! You are a brave knight.
I am a defenseless lady. Give me your hand. Help me to mount behind you.
Then I will cling to you while we ride through some deep, dark forest
where there are dragons and cross-bowmen and all sorts of terrifying
perils."
Joining her in this spirit of make-believe, Jeanne assisted her to the
back of the inanimate charger.
Having touched some secret button, Rosemary set the charger in motion.
They were riding now. Swaying from side to side, rising, falling, they
seemed indeed to be passing through some dark and doleful place. As
Jeanne closed her eyes the illusion became quite complete. As she felt
Rosemary clinging to her as she might cling to some gallant knight, she
forgot for the time that she was Petite Jeanne and that she had suffered
a dire disappointment.
"I am Pierre!" she whispered to herself. "I am a brave knight. Rosemary
loves me."
The disquieting effect of this last thought awakened her to the realities
of life. Perhaps, after all, Rosemary did love her a little as Pierre. If
this were true--
Sliding off the steed, then lifting Rosemary to the floor, she exclaimed:
"Come! Over yonder is a castle. Let us see who is at home over there."
Soon enough she was to see.
The castle was, as all stage castles are, a mere shell; very beautiful
and grand on the outside, a hollow echo within. For all that, the two
youthful adventurers found a certain joy in visiting that castle. There
was a rough stairway leading up through great empty spaces within to a
broad, iron-railed balcony. From this balcony, on more than one night, an
opera lover had leaned forth to sing songs of high enchantment, luring
forth a hidden lover.
They climbed the stairs. Then Petite Jeanne, caught by the spell of the
place, leaned far out of the window and burst into song, a wild gypsy
serenade.
Rosemary was leaning back among the rafters, drinking in the sweet
mystery of life that was all about her, when of a sudden the French
girl's song broke off. Her face went white for an instant as she swayed
there and must surely have fallen had not Rosemary caught her.
"Wha--what is it?" she whispered hoarsely.
For a space of seconds there came no answer, then a low whisper:
"Those eyes! I saw them. Those evil eyes. Back of the mountain. They
glared at me."
"Eyes?"
"The dark-faced man. He--he frightens me! The way out! We must find it!"
Roused by her companion's fears, Rosemary led the way on tiptoe down the
stairs. Still in silence they crossed the broad emptiness of the castle,
came to a rear door, tried it, felt it yield to their touch, and passed
through, only to hear the intruder come racing down the stairs.
"He--he did not see us!" Rosemary panted. "For now we are safe.
This--come this way!"
She crowded her way between a stairway lying upon its side and a property
porch. Jeanne, whose heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs,
followed in silence.
"What a brave knight I am!" she told herself, and smiled in spite of her
deathly fears.
"The way out," Rosemary whispered over her shoulder. "If I only can find
that!"
A sound, from somewhere behind, startled them into renewed effort.
Passing through a low forest of property trees, they crossed a narrow
bare space to find themselves confronted by a more formidable forest of
chairs and tables. Chairs of all sorts, with feet on the floor or high in
air, blocked their way.
As Rosemary attempted to creep between two great piles, one of these
toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.
"Come!" Her tone was near despair. "We must find the way out!"
As for Jeanne, she was rapidly regaining her composure. This was not the
only time she had been lost in an Opera House. The Paris Opera had once
held her a prisoner.
"Yes, yes. The way out!" She took the lead. "I think I see a light, a
tiny red light."
For a second she hesitated. What was this light? Was it held in the hand
of the unwelcome stranger? Was it an "Exit" light?
"It's the way out!" she exulted. A quick turn, a sharp cry and she went
crashing forward. Some object had lain in her path. She had stumbled upon
it in the dark.
What was it? This did not matter. All that mattered were Rosemary and the
way out.
Where was Rosemary? Leaping to her feet, she glanced wildly about. A move
from behind demoralized her. One more wild dash and she was beneath that
red light. Before her was a door. And at that door, pressing the knob,
was Rosemary.
Next instant they had crowded through that door.
But where were they? Narrow walls hemmed them in on every side.
"It's a trap!" Rosemary moaned.
Not so Jeanne. She pressed a button. They were in a French elevator. They
went up.
Up, up they glided. The light of a door came, then faded, then another
and yet another.
In consternation lest they crash at the top, Jeanne pressed a second
button. They came to a sudden halt. A light shone above them. A second,
slower upward glide and they were before still another door. The door
swung open. Still filled with wild panic, they rushed into a room where
all was dark, and lost themselves in a perfect labyrinth where costumes
by hundreds hung in rows.
Crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, with scarcely room to breathe,
they stood there panting, waiting, listening.
Slowly their blood cooled. No sound came to their waiting ears. Still
Jeanne felt Rosemary's heart beating wildly.
"To her I am a knight," she thought. "I am Pierre."
Then a thought struck her all of a heap. "Perhaps I am not Pierre to her.
She may suspect. Yes, she may know!" A cold chill gripped her heart. "If
she finds out, what an impostor she will believe me to be!
"And yet," she thought more calmly, "I have meant no wrong. I only wanted
to be near the opera, to be ready for any great good fortune that might
befall me.
"Besides, how could she know? Who would tell her? The lady in black? But
how could she know? No! No! My secret is safe.
"Come!" she whispered a moment later, "I think we have escaped from those
most terrible eyes."
Creeping out, they made their way along a corridor that welcomed them
with ever-increasing brightness until they stood before a passenger
elevator. A moment later they stood in the clear bright light of late
autumn afternoon.
Throwing back her chest, the little French girl, who for a moment was
Pierre, drank in three deep breaths, then uttered a long-drawn:
"Wh-e-w!"
"This," said Rosemary, extending her hand as she might had she been
leaving a party, "has been delightful. So perfectly wonderful. Let's do
it again sometime.
"One more thing!" She whispered this. "They have never found my pearls.
But it really does not matter, at least not very much. What are pearls
among friends?"
Before Petite Jeanne could recover from her surprise she was gone.
"I suppose," she sighed as she turned to go on her way, "that some people
have many terrible adventures and want none, and some have none but want
many. What a crazy, upside-down world this is, after all."
She was well on her way home when a question, coming into her mind with
the force of a blow, left her stunned.
"Why did Rosemary say: 'The pearls have not been found. It does not
matter?'
"Does she believe I took the pearls?" she asked herself, when she had
partially recovered her poise. "And was she telling me I might keep them?
"How absurd! And yet, what did she mean?
"And, after all, how could she help believing that I took them? I ran
away. There has been no explanation. Unless--unless she knows that I am
Petite Jeanne and not Pierre! And how could she know?"
That night as, once more playing the role of Pierre, she entered the
boxes, she found Jaeger, the detective, in his place. And, lurking deep
in the shadows was the lady in black. She shuddered anew.