CHAPTER XX A PLACE OF ENCHANTMENT
Then came for Petite Jeanne an hour of swiftly passing glory.
She had arisen late, as was her custom, and was sipping her black coffeewhen the telephone rang.
"This is Marjory Dean." The words came to her over the wire in thefaintest whisper. But how they thrilled her! "Is this Petite Jeanne? Oris it Pierre?" The prima donna was laughing.
"It is Petite Jeanne at breakfast," Jeanne answered. Her heart was in herthroat. What was she to expect?
"Then will you please ask Pierre if it will be possible for him to meetme at the Opera House stage door at three this afternoon?"
"I shall ask him." Jeanne put on a business-like tone. For all that, herheart was pounding madly. "It may be my great opportunity!" she toldherself. "I may yet appear for a brief space of time in an opera. Whatglory!"
After allowing a space of thirty seconds to elapse, during which time shemight be supposed to have consulted the mythical Pierre, she repliedquite simply:
"Yes, Miss Dean, Pierre will meet you at that hour. And he wishes me tothank you very much."
"Sh! Never a word of this!" came over the phone; then the voice was gone.
Jeanne spent the remainder of the forenoon in a tumult of excitement. Atnoon she ate a light lunch, drank black tea, then sat down to study thescore of her favorite opera, "The Juggler of Notre Dame."
It is little wonder that Jeanne loved this more than any other opera. Itis the story of a simple wanderer, a juggler. Jeanne, as we have saidbefore, had been a wanderer in France. She had danced the gypsy danceswith her bear in every village of France and every suburb of Paris.
And Cluny, a suburb of Paris, is the scene of this little opera. Ajuggler, curiously enough named Jean, arrives in this village just as thepeople have begun to celebrate May Day in the square before the convent.
The juggler is welcomed. But one by one his poor tricks are scorned. Thepeople demand a drinking song. The juggler is pious. He fears to offendthe Virgin. But at last, beseeching the Virgin's forgiveness, he grantstheir request.
Hearing the shouts of the crowd, the prior of the monastery comes out toscatter the crowd and rebuke the singer. He bids the poor juggler repentand, putting the world at his back, enter the monastery, never more towander over the beautiful hills of France.
In the juggler's poor mind occurs a great struggle. And in this strugglethese words are wrung from his lips:
"But renounce, when I am still young, Renounce to follow thee, oh, Liberty, beloved, Careless fay with clear golden smile! 'Tis she my heart for mistress has chosen; Hair in the wind laughing, she takes my hand, She drags me on chance of the hour and the road. The silver of the waters, the gold of the blond harvest, The diamonds of the nights, through her are mine! I have space through her, and love and the world. The villain, through her, becomes king! By her divine charm, all smiles on me, all enchants, And, to accompany the flight of my song, The concert of the birds snaps in the green bush. Gracious mistress and sister I have chosen. Must I now lose you, oh, my royal treasure? Oh, Liberty, my beloved, Careless fay of the golden smile!"
"Liberty ... careless fay of the golden smile." Jeanne repeated thesewords three times. Then with dreamy eyes that spanned a nation and anocean, she saw again the lanes, the hedges, the happy villages of France.
"Who better than I can feel as that poor juggler felt as he gave all thisup for the monastery's narrow walls?" she asked. No answer came back. Sheknew the answer well enough for all that. And this knowledge gave hercourage for the hours that were to come.
She met Marjory Dean by one of the massive pillars that adorn the greatOpera House.
"To think," she whispered, "that all this great building should beerected that thousands might hear you sing!"
"Not me alone." The prima donna smiled. "Many, many others and many, Ihope, more worthy than I."
"What a life you have had!" the little French girl cried rapturously."You have truly lived!
"To work, to dream, to hope," she went on, "to struggle onward towardsome distant goal, this is life."
"Ah, no, my child." Marjory Dean's face warmed with a kindly smile. "Thisis not life. It is but the beginning of life. One does not work long,hope much, struggle far, before he becomes conscious of someone on theway before him. As he becomes conscious of this one, the other puts out ahand to aid him forward. Together they work, dream, hope and struggleonward. Together they succeed more completely.
"And then," her tone was mellow, thoughtful, "there comes the time whenthe one who had been given the helping hand by one before looks back andsees still another who struggles bravely over the way he has come. Hisother hand stretches back to this weaker one. And so, with someone beforeto assist, with one behind to be assisted, he works, dreams, hopes andstruggles on through his career, be it long or short. And this, my child,is life."
"Yes, I see it now. I knew it before. But one forgets. Watch me. I shallcling tightly to your hand. And when my turn comes I shall pray forcourage and strength, then reach back to one who struggles a little waybehind."
"Wise, brave child! How one could love you!"
With this the prima donna threw her arm across Jeanne's shoulder andtogether they marched into the place of solemn enchantment, an OperaHouse that is "dark."