A SURPRISE PARTY
Time marched on, as time has a way of doing. A week passed, another and
yet another. Each night of opera found Jeanne, still masquerading as
Pierre, at her post among the boxes. Never forgetting that a priceless
necklace had been stolen from those boxes and that she had run away, ever
conscious of the searching eyes of Jaeger and of the inscrutable shadow
that was the lady in black, Jeanne performed her tasks as one who walks
beneath a shadow that in a moment may be turned into impenetrable
darkness.
For all this, she still thrilled to the color, the music, the drama,
which is Grand Opera.
"Some day," she had a way of whispering to herself, "some happy day!" Yet
that day seemed indistinct and far away.
The dark-faced menace to her happiness, he of the evil eye, appeared to
have vanished. Perhaps he was in jail. Who could tell?
The little Frenchman with the message, too, had vanished. Why had he
never returned to ask Pierre, the usher in the boxes, the correct address
of Petite Jeanne? Beyond doubt he believed himself the victim of a
practical joke. "This boy Pierre knows nothing regarding the whereabouts
of that person named Petite Jeanne." Thus he must have reasoned. At any
rate the message was not delivered. If Jeanne had lost a relative by
death, if she had inherited a fortune or was wanted for some misdemeanor
committed in France, she remained blissfully ignorant of it all.
Three times Rosemary Robinson had invited her to visit her at her home.
Three times, as Pierre, politely but firmly, she had refused. "This
affair," she told herself, "has gone far enough. Before our friendship
ripens or is blighted altogether, I must reveal to her my identity. And
that I am not yet willing to do. It might rob me of my place in this
great palace of art."
Thanks to Marjory Dean, the little French girl's training in Grand Opera
proceeded day by day. Without assigning a definite reason for it, the
prima donna had insisted upon giving her hours of training each week in
the role of the juggler.
More than this, she had all but compelled Jeanne to become her understudy
in the forthcoming one-act opera to be known as "The Magic Curtain."
At an opportune moment Marjory Dean had introduced the manager of the
opera to all the fantastic witchery of this new opera. He had been taken
by it.
At once he had agreed that when the "Juggler" was played, this new opera
should be presented to the public.
So Jeanne lived in a world of dreams, dreams that she felt could never
come true. "But I am learning," she would whisper to herself, "learning
of art and life. What more could one ask?"
Then came a curious invitation. She was to visit the studios of Fernando
Tiffin. The invitation came through Marjory Dean. Strangest of all, she
was to appear as Pierre.
"Why Pierre?" she pondered.
"Yes, why?" Florence echoed. "But, after all, such an invitation!
Fernando Tiffin is the greatest sculptor in America. Have you seen the
fountain by the Art Museum?"
"Where the pigeons are always bathing?"
"Yes."
"It is beautiful."
"He created that statue, and many others."
"That reminds me," Jeanne sought out her dress suit and began searching
its pockets, "an artist, an interesting man with a beard, gave me his
card. He told me to visit his studio. He was going to tell me more about
lights and shadows."
"Lights and shadows?"
"Yes. How they are like life. But now I have lost his card."
* * * * * * * *
Florence returned to the island. There she sat long in the sunshine by
the rocky shore, talking with Aunt Bobby. She found the good lady greatly
perplexed.
"They've served notice," Aunt Bobby sighed, "the park folks have. All
that is to come down." She waved an arm toward the cottonwood thicket and
the "Cathedral." "A big building is going up. Steam shovels are working
over on the west side now. Any day, now, we'll have to pack up, Meg and
me.
"And where'll we go? Back to the ships, I suppose. I hate it for Meg. She
ought to have more schoolin'. But poor folks can't pick and choose."
"There will be a way out," Florence consoled her. But would there? Who
could tell?
She hunted up Meg and advised her to look into that mysterious package.
"It may be a bomb."
"If it is, it won't go off by itself."
"It may be a gun."
"Don't need a gun. Got two of 'em. Good ones."
"It may be stolen treasure."
"Well, I didn't steal it!" Meg turned flashing eyes upon her. And there
for a time the matter ended.
* * * * * * * *
Jeanne attended the great sculptor's party. Since she had not been
invited to accompany Marjory Dean, she went alone. What did it matter?
Miss Dean was to be there. That was enough.
She arrived at three o'clock in the afternoon. A servant answered the
bell. She was ushered at once into a vast place with a very high ceiling.
All about her were statues and plaster-of-paris reproductions of
masterpieces.
Scarcely had she time to glance about her when she heard a voice, saw a
face and knew she had found an old friend--the artist who had spoken so
interestingly of life, he of the beard, was before her.
"So this is where you work?" She was overjoyed. "And does the great
Fernando Tiffin do his work here, too?"
"I am Fernando Tiffin."
"Oh!" Jeanne swayed a little.
"You see," the other smiled, putting out a hand to steady her, "I, too,
like to study life among those who do not know me; to masquerade a
little."
"Masquerade!" Jeanne started. Did he, then, see through her own
pretenses? She flushed.
"But no!" She fortified herself. "How could he know?"
"You promised to tell me more about life." She hurried to change the
subject.
"Ah, yes. How fine! There is yet time.
"You see." He threw a switch. The place was flooded with light. "The
thing that stands before you, the 'Fairy and the Child,' it is called. It
is a reproduction of a great masterpiece: a perfect reproduction, yet in
this light it is nothing; a blare of white, that is all.
"But see!" He touched one button, then another, and, behold, the statue
stood before them a thing of exquisite beauty!
"You see?" he smiled. "Now there are shadows, perfect shadows, just
enough, and just enough light.
"Life is like that. There must be shadows. Without shadows we could not
be conscious of light. But when the lights are too bright, the shadows
too deep, then all is wrong.
"Your bright lights of life at the Opera House, the sable coats, the
silks and jewels, they are a form of life. But there the lights are too
strong. They blind the eyes, hide the true beauty that may be beneath it
all.
"But out there on that vacant lot, in the cold and dark--you have not
forgotten?"
"I shall never forget." Jeanne's voice was low.
"There the shadows were too deep. It was like this." He touched still
another button. The beauty of the statue was once more lost, this time in
a maze of shadows too deep and strong.
"You see." His voice was gentle.
"I see."
"But here are more guests arriving. You may not be aware of it, but this
is to be an afternoon of opera, not of art."
Soon enough Jeanne was to know this, for, little as she had dreamed it,
hers on that occasion was to be the stellar role.
It was Marjory Dean who had entered. With her was the entire cast of "The
Magic Curtain."
"He has asked that we conduct a dress rehearsal here for the benefit of a
few choice friends," Miss Dean whispered in Jeanne's ear, as soon as she
could draw her aside.
"A strange request, I'll grant you," she answered Jeanne's puzzled look.
"Not half so strange as this, however. He wishes you to take the stellar
role."
"But, Miss Dean!"
"It is his party. His word is law in many places. You will do your best
for me." She pressed Jeanne's hand hard.
Jeanne did her best. And undoubtedly, despite the lack of a truly magic
curtain, despite the limitations of the improvised stage, the audience
was visibly impressed.
At the end, as Jeanne sank from sight beneath the stage, the great
sculptor leaned over to whisper in Marjory Dean's ear:
"She will do it!"
"What did I tell you? To be sure she will!"
The operatic portion of the program at an end, the guests were treated to
a brief lecture on the art of sculpture. Tea was served. The guests
departed. Through it all Jeanne walked about in a daze. "It is as if I
had been invited to my own wedding and did not so much as know I was
married," she said to Florence, later in the day.
Florence smiled and made no reply. There was more to come, much more.
Florence believed that. But Jeanne had not so much as guessed.