"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 ship 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.
"Now you are dreaming."
"Dreaming?" She stopped dead still. "Perhaps. But my dreams will come true. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. You will write a grand opera."
"Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks." He still smiled. Nevertheless he held her hand in a warm clasp.
"Yes," she agreed, "I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But, for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my good friend!" Her tone was impressive. "I have seen that which will form the background for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; but an opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall write it."
"You talk in riddles." He drew her to a seat beside him. "Explain, my beautiful gypsy."
"This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain that burns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it for yourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than any you have yet dreamed."
"And you shall be the leading lady!" He had caught the spirit of the hour. "That shall be glory. Glory for me."
"Ah, no, my friend." Pet.i.te Jeanne"s head drooped a little. "I am not known to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grand lady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?"
"You are right." Angelo"s tone was solemn. "She is very grand, marvelous indeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all things best for those who love us a little."
"Ah, you would say that!" Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
"But see!" she cried when she had regained her composure. "Marjory Dean, too, is to see the magic curtain. To-morrow at midnight, you shall see her. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then all will be more than well.
"And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rolls stuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with the feast!"
Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid of handles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoy such a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in those balmy days when purses were lined with gold.
"What is poverty when one has friends?" Angelo demanded joyously, as at last he a.s.sisted Jeanne to her feet.
"What, indeed?" Jeanne agreed heartily.
"Friday at midnight," Angelo said solemnly, as a moment later Jeanne stood at the doorway.
"As the clock strikes the hour," she breathed. Then she was gone.
CHAPTER XXVIII FLORENCE CRASHES IN
At that moment Florence was involved in an affair which threatened to bring her brief career to a tragic end.
It had begun innocently enough. The back of a man"s head, seen in a crowd, had interested her. She had made a study of men"s heads. "There"s as much character to be read in the back of one"s head as in one"s face,"
a psychologist had said to her. Doubting his statement, she had taken up this study to disprove his theory. She had ended by believing. For truly one may read in the carriage of the head stubbornness, indecision, mental and physical weakness; yes, and a capacity for crime.
It was this last, revealed in the neck of the man in the throng, that had set her on his trail.
She had not long to wait for confirmation. At a turn in the street the man offered her a side view. At once she caught her breath. This man was dark of visage. He had an ugly red scar on his chin.
"Jeanne"s shadow!" she whispered to herself. "And such a shadow!" She shuddered at the very thought.