The Magic Curtain Part 32

CHAPTER x.x.x A SURPRISE PARTY

Time marched on, as time has a way of doing. A week pa.s.sed, another and yet another. Each night of opera found Jeanne, still masquerading as Pierre, at her post among the boxes. Never forgetting that a priceless necklace had been stolen from those boxes and that she had run away, ever conscious of the searching eyes of Jaeger and of the inscrutable shadow that was the lady in black, Jeanne performed her tasks as one who walks beneath a shadow that in a moment may be turned into impenetrable darkness.

For all this, she still thrilled to the color, the music, the drama, which is Grand Opera.

"Some day," she had a way of whispering to herself, "some happy day!" Yet that day seemed indistinct and far away.

The dark-faced menace to her happiness, he of the evil eye, appeared to have vanished. Perhaps he was in jail. Who could tell?

The little Frenchman with the message, too, had vanished. Why had he never returned to ask Pierre, the usher in the boxes, the correct address of Pet.i.te Jeanne? Beyond doubt he believed himself the victim of a practical joke. "This boy Pierre knows nothing regarding the whereabouts of that person named Pet.i.te Jeanne." Thus he must have reasoned. At any rate the message was not delivered. If Jeanne had lost a relative by death, if she had inherited a fortune or was wanted for some misdemeanor committed in France, she remained blissfully ignorant of it all.

Three times Rosemary Robinson had invited her to visit her at her home.

Three times, as Pierre, politely but firmly, she had refused. "This affair," she told herself, "has gone far enough. Before our friends.h.i.+p ripens or is blighted altogether, I must reveal to her my ident.i.ty. And that I am not yet willing to do. It might rob me of my place in this great palace of art."

Thanks to Marjory Dean, the little French girl's training in Grand Opera proceeded day by day. Without a.s.signing a definite reason for it, the prima donna had insisted upon giving her hours of training each week in the role of the juggler.

More than this, she had all but compelled Jeanne to become her understudy in the forthcoming one-act opera to be known as "The Magic Curtain."

At an opportune moment Marjory Dean had introduced the manager of the opera to all the fantastic witchery of this new opera. He had been taken by it.

At once he had agreed that when the "Juggler" was played, this new opera should be presented to the public.

So Jeanne lived in a world of dreams, dreams that she felt could never come true. "But I am learning," she would whisper to herself, "learning of art and life. What more could one ask?"

Then came a curious invitation. She was to visit the studios of Fernando Tiffin. The invitation came through Marjory Dean. Strangest of all, she was to appear as Pierre.

"Why Pierre?" she pondered.

"Yes, why?" Florence echoed. "But, after all, such an invitation!

Fernando Tiffin is the greatest sculptor in America. Have you seen the fountain by the Art Museum?"

"Where the pigeons are always bathing?"

"Yes."

"It is beautiful."

"He created that statue, and many others."

"That reminds me," Jeanne sought out her dress suit and began searching its pockets, "an artist, an interesting man with a beard, gave me his card. He told me to visit his studio. He was going to tell me more about lights and shadows."

"Lights and shadows?"

"Yes. How they are like life. But now I have lost his card."

Florence returned to the island. There she sat long in the suns.h.i.+ne by the rocky sh.o.r.e, talking with Aunt Bobby. She found the good lady greatly perplexed.

"They've served notice," Aunt Bobby sighed, "the park folks have. All that is to come down." She waved an arm toward the cottonwood thicket and the "Cathedral." "A big building is going up. Steam shovels are working over on the west side now. Any day, now, we'll have to pack up, Meg and me.

"And where'll we go? Back to the s.h.i.+ps, I suppose. I hate it for Meg. She ought to have more schoolin'. But poor folks can't pick and choose."

"There will be a way out," Florence consoled her. But would there? Who could tell?

She hunted up Meg and advised her to look into that mysterious package.

"It may be a bomb."

"If it is, it won't go off by itself."

"It may be a gun."

"Don't need a gun. Got two of 'em. Good ones."

"It may be stolen treasure."

"Well, I didn't steal it!" Meg turned flas.h.i.+ng eyes upon her. And there for a time the matter ended.

Jeanne attended the great sculptor's party. Since she had not been invited to accompany Marjory Dean, she went alone. What did it matter?

Miss Dean was to be there. That was enough.

She arrived at three o'clock in the afternoon. A servant answered the bell. She was ushered at once into a vast place with a very high ceiling.

All about her were statues and plaster-of-paris reproductions of masterpieces.

Scarcely had she time to glance about her when she heard a voice, saw a face and knew she had found an old friend--the artist who had spoken so interestingly of life, he of the beard, was before her.

"So this is where you work?" She was overjoyed. "And does the great Fernando Tiffin do his work here, too?"

"I am Fernando Tiffin."

"Oh!" Jeanne swayed a little.

"You see," the other smiled, putting out a hand to steady her, "I, too, like to study life among those who do not know me; to masquerade a little."

"Masquerade!" Jeanne started. Did he, then, see through her own pretenses? She flushed.

"But no!" She fortified herself. "How could he know?"

"You promised to tell me more about life." She hurried to change the subject.

"Ah, yes. How fine! There is yet time.

"You see." He threw a switch. The place was flooded with light. "The thing that stands before you, the 'Fairy and the Child,' it is called. It is a reproduction of a great masterpiece: a perfect reproduction, yet in this light it is nothing; a blare of white, that is all.