Part 19 (1/2)
”And to think!” she whispered to herself, ”that this little old lady and her lost cameo should so soon begin to fit into the marvelous pattern of my life.”
She had wonderful dreams, had this little French girl. She would see the magic curtain once more. With her on this occasion should be Marjory Dean, the great opera star, and her friend Angelo who wrote operas. When the magic curtain had been seen, an opera should be written around it, an Oriental opera full of mystery; a very short opera to be sure but an opera all the same.
”And perhaps!” Her feet sped away in a wild fling. ”Perhaps I shall have a tiny part in that opera; a very tiny part indeed.”
CHAPTER XVIII THEY THAT Pa.s.s IN THE NIGHT
The opera presented that night was Wagner's _Die Valkyre_. To Pet.i.te Jeanne, the blithesome child of suns.h.i.+ne and song, it seemed a trifle heavy. For all this she was fascinated by the picture of life as it might have been lived long before man began writing his own history. And never before had she listened to such singing.
It was in the last great scene that a fresh hope for the future was borne in upon her. In the opera, Brunhilde having, contrary to the wishes of the G.o.ds, interceded for her lover Sigmund, she must be punished. She pleads her own cause in vain. At last she asks for a special punishment: that she be allowed to sleep encircled by fire until a hero of her people is found strong enough to rescue her.
Her wish is granted. Gently the G.o.d raises her and kisses her brow.
Slowly she sinks upon the rock while tongues of flame leap from the rocks. Moment by moment the flames leap higher until the heroine is lost from sight.
It was at the very moment when the fires burned fiercest, the orchestra played its most amazing strains, that a great thought came to Jeanne.
”I will do it!” she cried aloud. ”How wonderful that will be! We shall have an opera. The magic curtain; it shall be like this.”
Then, realizing that there were people close at hand, she clapped a hand to her lips and was silent.
A moment more and the strains of delectable music died away. Then it was that a man touched Jeanne's arm.
”You are French.” The man had an unmistakable accent.
”Yes, monsieur.”
”I would like a word with you.”
”Yes, yes. If you will please wait here.” As Pierre, in a dress suit, Jeanne still had work to do.
Her head awhirl with her bright new idea, her eyes still seeing red from the fires that guarded Brunhilde, she hurried through with her humble tasks. Little wonder that she had forgotten the little Frenchman with the small beard. She started when he touched her arm.
”Pardon, my son. May I now have a word with you?”
She started at that word ”son,” but quickly regained her poise.
”Surely you may.” She was at his command.
”I am looking,” he began at once, ”for a little French girl named Pet.i.te Jeanne.”
”Pet--Pet.i.te!” The little French girl did not finish. She was trembling.
”Ah! Perhaps you know her.”
”No, no. Ah, yes, yes,” Jeanne answered in wild confusion.
”You will perhaps tell me where she lives. I have a very important message for her. I came from France to bring it.”
”From France?” Jeanne was half smothered with excitement. What should she do? Should she say: ”I am Pet.i.te Jeanne?” Ah, no; she dared not. Then an inspiration came to her.