The Magic Curtain

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XXX A SURPRISE PARTY

  Time marched on, as time has a way of doing. A week passed, another andyet another. Each night of opera found Jeanne, still masquerading asPierre, at her post among the boxes. Never forgetting that a pricelessnecklace had been stolen from those boxes and that she had run away, everconscious of the searching eyes of Jaeger and of the inscrutable shadowthat was the lady in black, Jeanne performed her tasks as one who walksbeneath a shadow that in a moment may be turned into impenetrabledarkness.

  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!" Yetthat day seemed indistinct and far away.

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

  The little Frenchman with the message, too, had vanished. Why had henever returned to ask Pierre, the usher in the boxes, the correct addressof Petite Jeanne? Beyond doubt he believed himself the victim of apractical joke. "This boy Pierre knows nothing regarding the whereaboutsof that person named Petite Jeanne." Thus he must have reasoned. At anyrate the message was not delivered. If Jeanne had lost a relative bydeath, if she had inherited a fortune or was wanted for some misdemeanorcommitted 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. "Thisaffair," she told herself, "has gone far enough. Before our friendshipripens or is blighted altogether, I must reveal to her my identity. Andthat I am not yet willing to do. It might rob me of my place in thisgreat palace of art."

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

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

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

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

  So Jeanne lived in a world of dreams, dreams that she felt could nevercome true. "But I am learning," she would whisper to herself, "learningof art and life. What more could one ask?"

  Then came a curious invitation. She was to visit the studios of FernandoTiffin. The invitation came through Marjory Dean. Strangest of all, shewas 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 thefountain 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 searchingits pockets, "an artist, an interesting man with a beard, gave me hiscard. He told me to visit his studio. He was going to tell me more aboutlights 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 sunshine bythe rocky shore, talking with Aunt Bobby. She found the good lady greatlyperplexed.

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

  "And where'll we go? Back to the ships, I suppose. I hate it for Meg. Sheought to have more schoolin'. But poor folks can't pick and choose."

  "There will be a way out," Florence consoled her. But would there? Whocould 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 flashing eyes upon her. And therefor a time the matter ended.

  * * * * * * * *

  Jeanne attended the great sculptor's party. Since she had not beeninvited 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 thebell. She was ushered at once into a vast place with a very high ceiling.All about her were statues and plaster-of-paris reproductions ofmasterpieces.

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

  "So this is where you work?" She was overjoyed. "And does the greatFernando 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 alittle."

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

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

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

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

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

  "But see!" He touched one button, then another, and, behold, the statuestood before them a thing of exquisite beauty!

  "You see?" he smiled. "Now there are shadows, perfect shadows, justenough, and just enough light.

  "Life is like that. There must be shadows. Without shadows we could notbe conscious of light. But when the lights are too bright, the shadowstoo deep, then all is wrong.

  "Your bright lights of life at the Opera House, the sable coats, thesilks and jewels, they are a form of life. But there the lights are toostrong. They blind the eyes, hide the true beauty that may be beneath itall.

  "But out there on that vacant lot, in the cold and dark--you have notforgotten?"

  "I shall never forget." Jeanne's voice was low.

  "There the shadows were too deep. It was like this." He touched stillanother button. The beauty of the statue was once more lost, this time ina 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 thisis 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 "TheMagic Curtain."

  "He has asked that we conduct a dress rehearsal here for the benefit of afew choice friends," Miss Dean whispered in Jeanne's ear, as soon as shecould 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 stellarrole."

  "But, Miss Dean!"

  "It is his party. His word is law in many places. You will do your bestfor me." She pressed Jeanne's hand hard.

  Jeanne did her best. And undoubtedly, despite the lack of a truly magiccurtain, despite the limitations of the improvise
d stage, the audiencewas visibly impressed.

  At the end, as Jeanne sank from sight beneath the stage, the greatsculptor 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 toa brief lecture on the art of sculpture. Tea was served. The guestsdeparted. Through it all Jeanne walked about in a daze. "It is as if Ihad been invited to my own wedding and did not so much as know I wasmarried," 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.