SPARKLING TREASURE
The strangest moment in the little French girl's career was that in
which, as the juggler, she tripped out upon the Opera House stage. More
than three thousand people had assembled in this great auditorium to see
and hear their favorite, the city's darling, Marjory Dean, perform in her
most famous role. She was not here. They would know this at once. What
would the answer be?
The answer, after perfunctory applause, was a deep hush of silence. It
was as if the audience had said: "Marjory Dean is not here. Ah, well, let
us see what this child can do."
Only her tireless work under Miss Dean's direction saved Jeanne from
utter collapse. Used as she was to the smiling faces and boisterous
applause of the good old light opera days, this silence seemed appalling.
As it was, she played her part with a perfection that was art, devoid of
buoyancy. This, at first. But as the act progressed she took a tight grip
on herself and throwing herself into the part, seemed to shout at the
dead audience: "You shall look! You shall hear! You must applaud!"
For all this, when the curtain was run down upon the scene, the applause,
as before, lacked enthusiasm. She answered but one curtain call, then
crept away alone to clench her small hands hard in an endeavor to keep
back the tears and to pray as she had never prayed before, that Marjory
Dean might arrive prepared to play her part before the curtain went up on
the second act.
But now a strange thing was happening. From one corner of the house there
came a low whisper and a murmur. It grew and grew; it spread and spread
until, like a fire sweeping the dead grass of the prairies, it had passed
to the darkest nook of the vast auditorium.
Curiously enough, a name was on every lip;
"Petite Jeanne!"
Someone, a fan of other days, had penetrated the girl's mask and had seen
there the light opera favorite of a year before. A thousand people in
that audience had known and loved her in those good dead days that were
gone.
When Jeanne, having waited and hoped in vain for the appearance of her
friend and benefactor, summoned all the courage she possessed, and once
more stepped upon the stage, she was greeted by such a round of applause
as she had never before experienced--not even in the good old days of
yesteryear.
This vast audience had suddenly taken her to its heart. How had this come
about? Ah, well, what did it matter? They were hers, hers for one short
hour. She must make the most of this golden opportunity.
That which followed, the completing of the "Juggler," the opening of "The
Magic Curtain," the complete triumph of this new American opera, will
always remain to Jeanne a beautiful dream. She walked and danced, she
sang and bowed as one in a dream.
The great moment of all came when, after answering the fifth curtain call
with her name, "Petite Jeanne! Petite Jeanne!" echoing to the vaulted
ceiling, she left the stage to walk square into the arms of Marjory Dean.
"Why, I thought--" She paused, too astounded for words.
"You thought I had fallen from a horse. So I did--a leather horse with
iron legs. It was in a gymnasium. Rosemary pushed me off. Truly it did
not hurt at all."
"A frame-up!" Jeanne stared.
"Yes, a frame-up for a good cause. 'The Magic Curtain' was yours, not
mine. You discovered it. It was through your effort that this little
opera was perfected. It was yours, not mine. Your golden hour."
"My golden hour!" the little French girl repeated dreamily. "But not ever
again. Not until I have sung and sung, and studied and studied shall I
appear again on such a stage!"
"Child, you have the wisdom of the gods."
"But the director!" Jeanne's mood changed. "Does he not hate you?"
"Quite the contrary. He loves me. Why should he not? I have found him a
fresh little American opera and a future star. His vast audience has gone
away happy. What more could he ask?"
What more, indeed?
But what is this? Florence is at Jeanne's side. What is she saying? "They
think they have discovered the whereabouts of Rosemary's pearls. On the
island." Would she go with them? Most certainly, and at once. But alas,
she has no clothes save those of Pierre, the usher of the boxes. Ah,
well, they must do. She will be ready at once. Yes! Yes! At once! Right
away!
They were all tumbling helter-skelter into the big town car, Jeanne,
Florence, Rosemary, Jaeger, the "lady cop" and even Marjory Dean, when a
dapper little man approached the car to ask for Petite Jeanne.
"She is here," the "lady cop" informed him. Indeed she was, and wedged in
so tight it was difficult to move.
"Ah! At last!" the little man sighed. "May I speak with her? It has been
my privilege to bear a message from France."
"A message!" Jeanne thrilled to the tips of her toes.
"I am afraid it is impossible." The "lady cop's" tone was business-like.
"It is late. Our errand is of the greatest importance."
"So, too, is my message. If you will permit, I shall accompany you."
Looking in the crowded car, he opened the driver's door and, hearing no
objections, took his place beside the chauffeur.
"And mystery still pursued her," Florence whispered to herself, as she
studied the back of the little Frenchman's head.
Jeanne was crowded in between Rosemary and the "lady cop." As Rosemary's
arm stole about her, still conscious of her dress suit and her
masquerade, she moved uneasily.
"It's all right, little French girl," Rosemary whispered. "I have known
all the time that you were Petite Jeanne and not Pierre.
"All the same," she added, "I have enjoyed this little play at life quite
as much as you."
With a little sigh of relief Jeanne sank back among the cushions.
Down the boulevard they sped; across a rattling wooden bridge, then
across the wind-blown, sandy island.
The car came to a stop at the entrance to the path that led to Aunt
Bobby's "Cathedral."
"You would do well to let me go first," Florence said to Jaeger and the
"lady cop." "Meg, the girl, has two fine revolvers. She can use them and
will do so if she believes she is being attacked."
Fortunately there was no trouble about securing an entrance. The strange
pair had not yet retired. At the sound of Florence's voice they threw
wide the door. At sight of her numerous company, however, they appeared
ready to slam it shut again.
"Just a little lark." Florence reassured them. "We have come all the way
from the opera to a 'Cathedral.'"
"Well, come in then." Aunt Bobby moved aside to let them pass.
"You see," said Florence, when they had crowded into the small living
room, "this lady here," she nodded at the "lady cop," "has a curious
notion about that birthday package of yours, Meg. She believes it
contains a pearl necklace of great value."
"But I--" Meg's face flushed.
"A reward of a thousand dollars has been offered for its return," the
"lady cop" put in quickly. "If you have recovered it, that reward will be
your own. Think what that will mean."
"But I have waited all this time!" Meg protested. "And to-morrow is my
birthday."
Florence glanced hastily at her watch. She smiled. "Not to-morrow, but
to-day." She showed that it was fifteen minutes past twelve.
With her last objection overruled, Meg produced the mysterious package.
At once a little circle of eager ones gathered about her.
With trembling hands, she untied the cord. She had all but unrolled the
black wrapping when the package, slipping from her nerveless fingers,
fell to the floor.
At once there came flashing back to them all manner of color: white,
pink, red and green.
"Not pearls alone, but diamonds, rubies, sapphires!" the "lady cop" said,
in an awed tone. "What a treasure!"
At the same time, with a little cry of joy, Rosemary bent over to seize
her string of pearls and clasp them about her neck.
"A thousand dollars, Meg!" It was Aunt Bobby who spoke. "They said a
thousand. That will settle all our troubles for many a day."
"And there will be more, much more." The "lady cop" began carefully
gathering up the scattered jewels. "All these were stolen. There will be
other rewards, and that which is never claimed may be sold."
"That dark-faced one thought he had chosen a safe place to hide it!" Meg
laughed.
"He was close pressed by the police," the "lady cop" explained. "It was
his one chance. And he lost; which was right enough."
"And now," came in a polite tone from the corner, "if I may have a word
with Petite Jeanne?" It was the little Frenchman. "But where is she? I do
not see her."
"Meg," said Jeanne imploringly, "have you a dress to loan me?"
"Sure have!"
They disappeared.
Five minutes later Jeanne reappeared in a blue calico dress.
"I am Petite Jeanne." She bowed low to the little Frenchman.
"Ah, yes! So you are. Then it is my pleasure to announce that you are
sole heir to a great castle in France. It is known as '_Le Neuf
Chateau_.' But it is truly very old and carries with it a broad estate."
"A castle!" Jeanne seemed undecided whether to shout or weep. "A great
castle for poor little me?"
"Ah, my child," the Frenchman put in quickly, "it will not be
necessary--it is quite unnecessary for you to reside there. Indeed, at
this moment it is rented, for an unheard of rental, to a rich American
who fancies castles and is fond of following the hounds."
"Then," exclaimed Jeanne, "I shall accept! I shall return to my beautiful
Paris. And there, forever and ever, I shall study for the opera. Is it
not so, Marjory Dean?
"And you, all of you, shall come to Paris as my guests."
"Yes, yes, on some bright summer's day," the great prima donna agreed.
That night--or shall we say morning?--Petite Jeanne arranged "Pierre's"
carefully pressed dress suit upon a hanger and hung it deep in the
shadows of her closet. "Good-bye Pierre," she whispered. "You brought me
fear and sorrow, hope, romance, a better understanding of life, and,
after that, a brief moment of triumph. I wonder if it is to be farewell
forever or only adieu for to-day."
And now, my reader, it is time to draw the magic curtain. And what of
that curtain? Up to this moment you know quite as much as I do. It was
used in but one performance of the opera that bears its name. It was then
withdrawn by its owner. Not, however, until a stage-property curtain,
produced with the aid of tiny copper wires, strips of asbestos and
colored ribbons, had been created to take its place. The secret of the
original magic curtain is still locked in the breast of its oriental
creator.
The dark-faced one has not, so far as I know, been apprehended. Perhaps
he fled to another city and has there met his just fate. Why he haunted
the trail of the page of the opera, Pierre, is known to him alone, and
the doer of dark deeds seldom talks.
And so the story ends. But what of the days that were to follow? Did that
little company indeed journey all the way to Paris? And did they find
mystery and great adventure in Jeanne's vast castle? Did Jeanne tire of
studying opera "forever and ever" and did she return to America? Or did
our old friend, Florence, forgetting her blonde companion of many
mysteries, go forth with others to seek adventure? If you wish these
questions answered you must read our next volume, which is to be known
as: _Hour of Enchantment_.
* * * * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
--Obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment. Non-standard
spellings and dialect were left unchanged.