"But see!" He touched one b.u.t.ton, then another, and, behold, the statue stood before them a thing of exquisite beauty!
"You see?" he smiled. "Now there are shadows, perfect shadows, just enough, and just enough light.
"Life is like that. There must be shadows. Without shadows we could not be conscious of light. But when the lights are too bright, the shadows too deep, then all is wrong.
"Your bright lights of life at the Opera House, the sable coats, the silks and jewels, they are a form of life. But there the lights are too strong. They blind the eyes, hide the true beauty that may be beneath it all.
"But out there on that vacant lot, in the cold and dark--you have not forgotten?"
"I shall never forget." Jeanne"s voice was low.
"There the shadows were too deep. It was like this." He touched still another b.u.t.ton. The beauty of the statue was once more lost, this time in a maze of shadows too deep and strong.
"You see." His voice was gentle.
"I see."
"But here are more guests arriving. You may not be aware of it, but this is to be an afternoon of opera, not of art."
Soon enough Jeanne was to know this, for, little as she had dreamed it, hers on that occasion was to be the stellar role.
It was Marjory Dean who had entered. With her was the entire cast of "The Magic Curtain."
"He has asked that we conduct a dress rehearsal here for the benefit of a few choice friends," Miss Dean whispered in Jeanne"s ear, as soon as she could draw her aside.
"A strange request, I"ll grant you," she answered Jeanne"s puzzled look.
"Not half so strange as this, however. He wishes you to take the stellar role."
"But, Miss Dean!"
"It is his party. His word is law in many places. You will do your best for me." She pressed Jeanne"s hand hard.
Jeanne did her best. And undoubtedly, despite the lack of a truly magic curtain, despite the limitations of the improvised stage, the audience was visibly impressed.
At the end, as Jeanne sank from sight beneath the stage, the great sculptor leaned over to whisper in Marjory Dean"s ear:
"She will do it!"
"What did I tell you? To be sure she will!"
The operatic portion of the program at an end, the guests were treated to a brief lecture on the art of sculpture. Tea was served. The guests departed. Through it all Jeanne walked about in a daze. "It is as if I had been invited to my own wedding and did not so much as know I was married," she said to Florence, later in the day.
Florence smiled and made no reply. There was more to come, much more.
Florence believed that. But Jeanne had not so much as guessed.
CHAPTER x.x.xI FLORENCE MEETS THE LADY IN BLACK
The great hour came at last. "To-night," Jeanne had whispered, ""The Magic Curtain" will unfold before thousands! Will it be a success?"
The very thought that it might prove a failure turned her cold. The happiness of her good friends, Angelo, Swen and Marjory Dean was at stake. And to Jeanne the happiness of those she respected and loved was more dear than her own.
Night came quite suddenly on that eventful day. Great dark clouds, sweeping in from the lake, drew the curtain of night.
Jeanne found herself at her place among the boxes a full hour before the time required. This was not of her own planning. There was a mystery about this; a voice had called her on the telephone requesting her to arrive early.
"Now I am here," she murmured, "and the place is half dark. Who can have requested it? What could have been the reason?"
Still another mystery. Florence was with her. And she was to remain. A place had been provided for her in the box usually occupied by Rosemary Robinson and her family.
"Of course," she had said to Florence, "they know that we had something to do with the discovery of the magic curtain. It is, perhaps, because of this that you are here."
Florence had smiled, but had made no reply.
At this hour the great auditorium was silent, deserted. Only from behind the drawn stage curtain came a faint murmur, telling of last minute preparations.
""The Magic Curtain."" Jeanne whispered. The words still thrilled her.
"It will be witnessed to-night by thousands. What will be the verdict?
To-morrow Angelo and Swen, my friends of our "Golden Circle," will be rich or very, very poor."
"The Magic Curtain." Surely it had been given a generous amount of publicity. Catching a note of the unusual, the mysterious, the uncanny in this production, the reporters had made the most of it. An entire page of the Sunday supplement had been devoted to it. A crude drawing of the curtains, pictures of Hop Long Lee, of Angelo, Swen, Marjory Dean, and even Jeanne were there. And with these a most lurid story purporting to be the history of this curtain of fire as it had existed through the ages in some little known Buddhist temple. The very names of those who, wrapped in its consuming folds, had perished, were given in detail.
Jeanne had read, had shuddered, then had tried to laugh it off as a reporter"s tale. In this she did not quite succeed. For her the magic curtain contained more than a suggestion of terror.
She was thinking of all this when an attendant, hurrying up the orchestra aisle, paused beneath her and called her name, the only name by which she was known at the Opera House:
"Pierre! Oh, Pierre!"
"Here. Here I am."
Without knowing why, she thrilled to her very finger tips. "Is it for this that I am here?" she asked herself.
"Hurry down!" came from below. "The director wishes to speak to you."
"The director!" The blood froze in her veins. So this was the end! Her masquerade had been discovered. She was to be thrown out of the Opera House.
"And on this night of all nights!" She was ready to weep.
It was a very meek Pierre who at last stood before the great director.
"Are you Pierre?" His tone was not harsh. She began to hope a little.
"I am Pierre."
"This man--" The director turned to one in the shadows. Jeanne caught her breath. It was the great sculptor, Fernando Tiffin.