FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS
All her life Florence had lived in the great and noisy city.
Not so Petite Jeanne. If you have read of her at all you will know that
as a child she had been a vagabond with gypsies of France, a very
beautiful vagabond, an accomplished dancer, but a vagabond all the same.
How this slender, golden-haired child of France came to America and how
at last France discovered her once more and carried her back to be the
mistress of a grand old chateau is no part of our story.
It was enough for Jeanne that she was here with her good pal Florence,
that they lived on the top floor of an ancient rooming house, that they
might come and go as they pleased, and that if she chose she might once
more turn vagabond for a day, a week, or a month.
For the moment she was interested most of all in this vast and most
marvelous of all carnivals, the Century of Progress. For many this was
not a carnival at all, but a serious attempt to place before man’s eye
all the stupendous achievements of mankind. For Jeanne it was a vast
carnival, a place to enjoy one’s self, a thing of beauty and a joy
forever.
Now as she tripped along at Florence’s side she whispered: “See! Are not
those steel towers mysterious? They are like fingers pointing to the
stars we do not see because the clouds hide them. And the little rocket
cars waiting there—they seem ready not just to carry you over to the
island of enchantment, but on and on through the sky to the moon, to
Venus, to Mars.
“But, oo, la la! Here I am dreaming again. We must hurry. Those terrible
Orientals may be turning our room upside down this very moment.”
More often than not, in this life, it happens that the thing we most
expect does not happen at all. With breath coming quick and short Petite
Jeanne and Florence climbed the four flights of stairs leading to their
room only to find everything as they had left it.
“Oh!” Jeanne breathed. “There is no one!”
“One would think,” Florence laughed, “that you were disappointed.”
“But no!” Jeanne made a face of horror. “What could one do if she were to
find her room filled with queer little yellow men?”
“Throw them down the stairs.”
“Ah, yes, you—you who are always tumbling around in a gymnasium. But poor
little me? Bah! It is quite im-poss-i-ble. I am glad they are not here.
“But, see!” The little French girl’s voice changed. She dragged a curious
box-like trunk from beneath the bed. “See what we have here.
“I had the worst time getting it open, this box,” she complained. “The
locks, they were strong.
“But, look!”
She held up a curious sort of banner on which was pictured a Chinese lady
holding out her hand so that a flock of bright colored butterflies might
light on it.
“Only a dusty Chinese banner!” Florence was disappointed. “Is there
anything else?”
“Many more like this. Always the picture is different. I love them. They
are so odd!”
“You may have them.” Florence was very weary. She began disrobing for the
night.
“See! Here is a jolly little bell!” A mellow tinkle rang out.
Florence laughed. “Bronze. You can buy one just like it at the Chink
store on Wabash. It’s too bad, little old sister.” She put her arms
affectionately about her slender companion. “We have lost the best
thing—a three-bladed dagger set with rubies and diamonds.
“But cheer up!” She tossed back the bed covers. “To-morrow will come. And
after that another to-morrow. I shall never forget that long-eared
Chinaman. And if we meet!” She made a gesture of violence.
“Besides,” she added as she crept into bed, “there are many more boxes to
be sold in the future. Better luck next time.”
Scarcely had her head touched the pillow than she was fast asleep.
Jeanne did not sleep. There was no need. For was she not at heart a
gypsy? And did not gypsies sleep when the spirit moved them to do so?
Twenty hours in one long sleep and after that, if opportunity presented
itself, twenty hours of adventure.
Ah, yes, no rising at seven to gulp down toast and coffee, then to dash
for a train. Jeanne was a real vagabond. Curled up among the cushions in
the sunshine, she had slept long hours that day.
So now she dragged the mysterious box into their tiny living room and
spread its highly colored banners on every available piece of furniture.
“Truly,” she whispered, “they are grotesque.” She was studying a picture,
all done in some form of needlework, the picture of a god with a dozen
arms and quite as many legs. “But then, they are beautiful, too. What
gorgeous tapestries they would make!”
She was thinking now of the all too bare walls of the great living room
in her own castle in France.
She had not found being rich in France a joyous business, this Petite
Jeanne.
In France if you are young and you are rich, then you are watched over by
a mother or perhaps an aunt (Jeanne had an aunt). You must see certain
people. You must not see others. You must not wander away alone. You must
not—oh, no, my dear, you must not—speak to strangers! No life was this
for a sweet and beautiful vagabond like Petite Jeanne.
So, when Florence had written her a glowing letter telling of the city of
many marvels that was spreading itself fairy-like across the waterfront
in Chicago, she gave her chateau over to a caretaker, bade him allow all
the good children to play on her grounds and in her forest at will, then
took a ship for America and her beloved big pal, Florence.
“And now,” she sighed happily, “here I am.
“And here—” Her tone changed. “Here you are.” She was addressing the box
of mysteries. “One would think—”
She broke off short to stand on tiptoe like a bird poised for flight. Had
she caught a sound from without, a shuffling of soft-padded feet on the
stairs? Ah, yes. There! A board creaked.
Snapping off the light, she stood in the darkness, tense, alert,
listening intently.
“That box!” Her thoughts were in a tumult. “Why do they want more? They
have the best.
“Shall I throw open the door and thrust the box at them?
“Ah, no, I shall not do that. Mystery, how one yearns for it! And yet how
one dreads it! This box, it is ours. We have bought it. We will fight for
it. I will call Florence. She will throw them down the stairs.
“But no! She is weary. They may have the knife. The lock is strong. Let
them spy upon us if they must.”
Jeanne was by nature a child of the night. To sit there in the dark, to
think and think, to wait and wait for that which in the end did not come,
was no hardship for her.
The first faint gray light of dawn was creeping upon the towers of that
magic city on the shores of Lake Michigan when at last she parted the
curtains to look away at the land and the black waters that lay beyond.
“_Bon jour_, sweet world!” she murmured. “Now we have a new day. And
to-night I shall go out alone to seek adventure.”
At that she shoved her pink toes beneath covers of silk filled with
eiderdown and slept the sleep of perfect peace, while out there by the
shores of Lake Michigan fifty thousand happy people romped through the
sunshine of a bright summer’s day.