DREAMING
Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful light
opera, _The Gypsy God of Fire_. No other could write as he--or so Jeanne
thought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnight
would be here before anyone could dream three dreams.
And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? "His garret
studio and at night," Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. "To-morrow
we will go."
"But to-morrow I cannot go. My work keeps me out late."
"Ah, well, then I shall go alone."
"Are you not afraid to be on the streets at night?"
"As Pierre I am afraid. But I shall be Petite Jeanne. As Jeanne I shall
be safe enough."
Knowing the futility of an argument with this strange child of France,
Florence smiled and went on her way.
That is how it came about that Jeanne found herself at a late hour
climbing the stairway that led to the garret studio that once had
witnessed so much lightness and gaiety.
She had expected to find changes. Times were hard. It had come to her, in
indirect ways, that her good friend had met with little success in New
York. But she was scarcely prepared for that which met her gaze as the
door was thrown open by Angelo himself.
Advancing into the center of the room, she found bare floors where there
had been bright, rich, Oriental rugs. The unique stage, with all its
settings of blue, green, red and gold, was bare.
"Yes," Angelo spoke slowly, meditatively, as if answering her mood, "they
took my things, one at a time. Fair enough, too. I owed money. I could
not pay. The piano went first, my old, old friend. A battered friend it
was, but its tones were true.
"And what grand times we had around that piano! Remember?"
"I remember." Jeanne's tone was low.
"But don't be sad about it." Angelo was actually smiling. "They took the
piano, the rugs, the desk where I composed your light opera.
"Ah, yes; but after all, these are but the symbols of life. They are not
life itself. They could not carry away the memory of those days, those
good brave days when we were sometimes rich and sometimes very, very
poor. The memories of those days will be with us forever. And of such
memories as these life, the best of life, is made."
After some brief, commonplace remarks, came a moment of silence.
"If you'll excuse me," Swen, Angelo's friend, said, "I will go out to
search for a bit of cheer."
"Yes, yes. He will bring us cheer. Then he will sing us a song." Jeanne
made a brave attempt at being merry.
When Swen was gone, Angelo motioned her to a place before the fire.
"We will not despair. 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast.' The
beautiful spring-time of life will bloom again.
"And see," he exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, "we still have the
fireplace! They could not take that. And there is always wood to be had.
I found this on the beach. It was washed up high in the storm at a spot
where children romp all summer long. Driftwood. Some from a broken ship
and some from who knows where?
"See how it burns. The flame! The flame!" He was all but chanting now.
"What colors there are! Can you see them? There is red and orange, pink,
purple, blue. All like a miniature magic curtain."
"Yes, like a magic curtain," Jeanne murmured.
Then suddenly she awoke from the entrancing spell this remarkable youth
had woven.
"Ah, yes, but those brave days will return for you!" she cried, springing
to her feet and leaping away in a wild dance. "The magic curtain, it will
bring them back to you!"
His fine eyes shone as he rose to admire the grace of her rhythmic dance.
"Now you are dreaming."
"Dreaming?" She stopped dead still. "Perhaps. But my dreams will come
true. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. You
will write a grand opera."
"Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks." He still smiled. Nevertheless he
held her hand in a warm clasp.
"Yes," she agreed, "I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But,
for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my good
friend!" Her tone was impressive. "I have seen that which will form the
background for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; but
an opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall write
it."
"You talk in riddles." He drew her to a seat beside him. "Explain, my
beautiful gypsy."
"This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain that
burns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it for
yourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than any
you have yet dreamed."
"And you shall be the leading lady!" He had caught the spirit of the
hour. "That shall be glory. Glory for me."
"Ah, no, my friend." Petite Jeanne's head drooped a little. "I am not
known to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grand
lady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?"
"You are right." Angelo's tone was solemn. "She is very grand, marvelous
indeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all things
best for those who love us a little."
"Ah, you would say that!" Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave him
a gentle shake.
"But see!" she cried when she had regained her composure. "Marjory Dean,
too, is to see the magic curtain. To-morrow at midnight, you shall see
her. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then all
will be more than well.
"And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rolls
stuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with the
feast!"
Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid of
handles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoy
such a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in those
balmy days when purses were lined with gold.
"What is poverty when one has friends?" Angelo demanded joyously, as at
last he assisted Jeanne to her feet.
"What, indeed?" Jeanne agreed heartily.
"Friday at midnight," Angelo said solemnly, as a moment later Jeanne
stood at the doorway.
"As the clock strikes the hour," she breathed. Then she was gone.