Part 28 (1/2)

”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 Pet.i.te 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 s.h.i.+p 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.