“Please don’t make me tell.” She gripped his arm. “Only let me out, and see me safe into a taxi. And—and—” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t whisper a word.”
“I—it’s irregular, but I—I’ll do it,” he replied gallantly.
Jeanne gave his arm another squeeze and they were away.
Three minutes later, still dressed as Pierre, the usher, she was huddled on the broad seat of a taxi, speeding for home.
CHAPTER VIII
AN ISLAND MYSTERY
When Florence, whose work as physical director required her attention until late hours three nights in the week, arrived, she found the little French girl still dressed as Pierre, curled up in a big chair shuddering in the cold and the dark.
“Wh-what’s happened?” She stared at her companion in astonishment.
“N-n-nothing happened!” wailed Petite Jeanne. “That is why I am so very much afraid. They have said not one word to me about the pearls. They believe I have them. They will follow me, shadow me, search this place. Who can doubt it? Oh, mon Dieu! Such times! Such troubles!
“And yes!” she cried with a fresh shudder. “There is the slim, dark-faced one who is after me. And how can I know why?”
“You poor child!” Florence lifted her from the chair as easily as she might had she been a sack of feathers. “You shall tell me all about it. But first I must make a fire and brew some good black tea. And you must run along and become Petite Jeanne. I am not very fond of this Pierre person.” She plucked at the black coat sleeve. “In fact I never have cared for him at all.”
Half an hour later the two girls were curled up amid a pile of rugs and cushions before the fire. Cups were steaming, the fire crackling and the day, such as it had been, was rapidly passing into the joyous realm of “times that are gone,” where one may live in memories that amuse and thrill, but never cause fear nor pain.
Jeanne had told her story and Florence had done her best to reassure her, when the little French girl exclaimed: “But you, my friend? Only a few hours ago you spoke of a discovery on the island. What was this so wonderful thing you saw there?”
“Well, now,” Florence sat up to prod the fire, “that was the strangest thing! You have been on the island?”
“No, my friend. In the fort, but not on the island.”
“Then you don’t know what sort of half wild place it is. It’s made of the dumping from a great city: cans, broken bricks, clay, everything. And from sand taken from the bottom of the lake. It’s been years in the making. Storms have washed in seeds. Birds have carried in others. Little forests of willow and cottonwood have sprung up. The south end is a jungle. A fit hide-out for tramps, you’d say. All that. You’d not expect to find respectable people living there, would you?”
“But how could they?”
“That’s the queer part. They could. And I’m almost sure they do. Seems too strange to be true.
“And yet—” She prodded the fire, then stared into the flames as if to see reproduced there pictures that had half faded from her memories. “And yet, Petite Jeanne, I saw a girl out there, quite a young girl, in overalls and a bathing-suit. She was like a statue when I first saw her, a living statue. She went in for a dip, then donned her overalls to dash right into the jungle.
“I wanted to see where she went, so I followed. And what do you think! After following a winding trail for a little time, I came, just where the cottonwoods are tallest, upon the strangest sort of dwelling—if it was a dwelling at all—I have ever seen.”
“What was it like?” Jeanne leaned eagerly forward.
“Like nothing on land or sea, but a little akin to both. The door was heavy and without glass. It had a great brass knob such as you find on the cabin doors of very old ships. And the windows, if you might call them that, looked like portholes taken from ships.
“But the walls; they were strangest of all. Curious curved pillars rose every two or three feet apart, to a considerable height. Between these pillars brick walls had been built. The whole was topped by a roof of green tile.”
“And the girl went in there?”
“Where else could she have gone?”
“And that was her home?”
“Who could doubt it?”
“America—” Jeanne drew a long breath. “Your America is a strange place.”
“So strange that even we who have lived here always are constantly running into the most astonishing things.
“Perhaps,” the big girl added, after a brief silence, “that is why America is such a glorious place to live.”
“But did you not endeavor to make a call at this strange home?” asked Jeanne.
“I did. Little good it did me! I knocked three times at the door. There was no answer. It was growing dark, but no light shone from those porthole windows. So all I could do was to retrace my steps.
“I had gone not a dozen paces when I caught the sound of a half suppressed laugh. I wheeled about, but saw no one. Now, what do you make of that?”
“It’s a sweet and jolly mystery,” said Jeanne. “We shall solve it, you and I.”
And in dreaming of this new and apparently harmless adventure, the little French girl’s troubles were, for the time being at least, forgotten. She slept soundly that night and all her dreams were dreams of peace.
But tomorrow was another day.
CHAPTER IX
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
And on that new day, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds after a storm, there came to Jeanne an hour of speechless joy.
Having exercised as ever her gift of friendship to all mankind, she was able, through her acquaintance with the watchman, to enter the opera house when she chose. There was only one drawback to this; she must enter always as Pierre and never as Petite Jeanne.
Knowing that some sort of rehearsal would be in progress, she garbed herself in her Pierre costume and repaired to the place which to her, of all places on earth, seemed the home of pure enchantment—the opera.
Even now, when the seats were clothed like ghosts in white sheets, when the aisles, so often adorned with living models all a-glitter with silks and jewels, and echoing with the sound of applause and laughter, were dark and still, the great hall lost none of its charm.
As she tripped noiselessly down the foyer where pillars cut from some curious stone flanked her on every side and priceless chandeliers hung like blind ghosts far above her head, she thought of the hundreds who had promenaded here displaying rich furs, costly silks and jewels. She recalled, too, the remark of that strangely studious man with a beard:
“It is a form of life.”
“I wonder what he meant?” she said half aloud. “Perhaps some day I shall meet him again. If I do, I shall ask him.”
But Jeanne was no person to be living in the past. She dreamed of the future when only dreams were at her command. For her the vivid, living, all-entrancing present was what mattered most. She had not haunted the building long before she might have been found curled up in a seat among the dark shadows close to the back row on the orchestra floor. She had pushed the white covering away, but was still half hidden by it; she could be entirely hidden in a second’s time if she so willed.
Behind and above her, black chasms of darkness, the boxes and balconies loomed. Before her the stage, all dark, seemed a mysterious cave where a hundred bandits might hide among the settings of some imposing scene.
She did not know the name of the opera to be rehearsed on this particular afternoon. Who, then, can describe the stirring of her blood, the quickening of her heart-beats, the thrill that coursed through her very being when the first faint flush of dawn began appearing upon the scene that lay before her? A stage dawn it was, to be sure; but very little less than real it was, for all that. In this matchless place of amusement shades of light, pale gray, blue, rosy red, all come creeping out, and dawn lingers as it does upon hills and forests of earth and stone and wood.
Eagerly the little French girl
leaned forward to catch the first glimpse of that unknown scene. Slowly, slowly, but quite surely, to the right a building began looming out from that darkness. The trunk of a tree appeared, another and yet another. Dimly a street was outlined. One by one these objects took on a clearer line until with an impulsive movement, Jeanne fairly leaped from her place.
“It is France!” she all but cried aloud. “My own beloved France! And the opera! It is to be ‘The Juggler of Notre Dame’! Was there ever such marvelous good fortune!”
It was indeed as if a will higher than her own had planned all this, for this short opera was the one Jeanne had studied. It was this opera, as you will remember from reading The Golden Circle, that Jeanne had once witnessed quite by chance as she lay flat upon the iron grating more than a hundred feet above the stage.
“And now I shall see Marjory Dean play in it once more,” she exulted. “For this is a dress rehearsal, I am sure of that.”
She was not long in discovering that her words were true. Scarcely had the full light of day shone upon that charming stage village, nestled among the hills of France, than a company of peasants, men, women and children, all garbed in bright holiday attire, came trooping upon the stage.
But what was this? Scarcely had they arrived than one who loitered behind began shouting in the most excited manner and pointing to the road that led back to the hills.
“The juggler is coming,” Jeanne breathed. “The juggler of Notre Dame.” She did not say Marjory Dean, who played the part. She said: “the juggler,” because at this moment she lived again in that beautiful village of her native land. Once again she was a gypsy child. Once more she camped at the roadside. With her pet bear and her friend, the juggler, she marched proudly into the village to dance for pennies before the delighted crowd in the village square.
What wonder that Petite Jeanne knew every word of this charming opera by heart? Was it not France as she knew it? And was not France her native land?
Breathing deeply, clutching now and then at her heart to still its wild beating, she waited and watched. A second peasant girl followed the first to the roadside. She too called and beckoned. Others followed her. And then, with a burst of joyous song, their gay garments gleaming like a bed of flowers, their faces shining, these happy villagers came trooping back. And in their midst, bearing in one hand a gay, colored hoop, in the other a mysterious bag of tricks, was the juggler of Notre Dame.
“It is Marjory Dean, Marjory herself. She is the juggler,” Jeanne whispered. She dared not trust herself to do more. She wanted to leap to her feet, to clap her hands and cry: “Ray! Ray! Ray! Vive! Vive! Vive!”
But no, this would spoil it all. She must see this beautiful story through to its end.
So, calming herself, she settled back to see the juggler, arrayed in his fantastic costume, open his bag of tricks. She saw him delight his audience with his simple artistry.
She watched, breathless, as a priest, coming from the monastery, rebuked him for practicing what he believed to be a sinful art. She suffered with the juggler as he fought a battle with his soul. When he came near to the door of the monastery that, being entered, might never again be abandoned, she wished to rise and shout:
“No! No! Juggler! Stay with the happy people in the bright sunshine. Show them more of your art. Life is too often sad. Bring joy to their lives!”
She said, in reality, nothing. When at last the curtain fell, she was filled with one desire: to be for one short hour the juggler of Notre Dame. She knew the words of his song; had practiced his simple tricks.
“Why not? Sometime—somewhere,” she breathed.
“Sometime? Somewhere?” She realized in an instant that no place could be quite the same to her as this one that in all its glories of green and gold surrounded her now.
When the curtain was up again the stage scene remained the same; but the gay peasants, the juggler, were gone.
After some moments of waiting Jeanne realized that this scene had been set for the night’s performance, that this scene alone would be rehearsed upon the stage.
“They are gone! It is over!” How empty her life seemed now. It was as if a great light had suddenly gone out.
Stealing from her place, she crept down the aisle, entered a door and emerged at last upon a dark corner of the stage.
For a moment, quite breathless, she stood there in the shadows, watching, listening.
“There is no one,” she breathed. “I am alone.”
An overpowering desire seized her to don the juggler’s costume, to sing his songs, to do his tricks. The costume was there, the bag of tricks. Why not?
Pausing not a second, she crept to the center of the stage, seized the coveted prizes, then beat a hasty retreat.
Ten minutes later, dancing lightly and singing softly, she came upon the stage. She was there alone. Yet, in her mind’s eye she saw the villagers of France, matrons and men, laughing lovers, dancing children, all before her as, casting her bag upon the green, she seized some trifling baubles and began working her charms.
For her, too, the seats were not dark, covered empties, but filled with human beings, filled with the light and joy of living.
Of a sudden she seemed to hear the reproving words of the priest.
Turning about, with sober face, she stood before the monastery door.
And then, like some bird discovered in a garden, she wanted to run away. For there, in very life, a little way back upon the vast stage, stood all the peasants of the opera. And in their midst, garbed in street attire, was Marjory Dean!
“Who are you? How do you dare tamper with my property, to put on my costume?” Marjory Dean advanced alone.
There was sternness in her tone. But there was another quality besides. Had it not been for this, Jeanne might have crumpled in a helpless heap upon the stage. As it was, she could only murmur in her humblest manner:
“I—I am only an usher. See!” She stripped off the juggler’s garb, and stood there in black attire. “Please do not be too hard. I have harmed nothing. See! I will put it all back.” This, with trembling fingers, she proceeded to do. Then in the midst of profound silence, she retreated into the shadows.
She had barely escaped from the stage into the darkness of the opera pit when a figure came soft-footedly after her.
She wished to flee, but a voice seemed to whisper, “Stay!”
The word that came ten seconds after was, “Wait! You can’t deceive me. You are Petite Jeanne!”
It was the great one, Marjory Dean, who spoke.
“Why, how—how could you know?” Jeanne was thrown into consternation.
“Who could not know? If one has seen you upon the stage before, he could not be mistaken.
“But, little girl,” the great one’s tone was deep and low like the mellow chimes of a great clock, “I will not betray you.
“You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better. And you, Jeanne, are much like me. A little make-up, and there you are, Petite Jeanne, who is Marjory Dean. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place, to do this first act for me, before all this.” She spread her arms wide as if to take in a vast audience.
“No!” Jeanne protested. “I could never do that. Never! Marjory Dean, I—no! No!”
She broke off to stare into the darkness. No one was there!
“I could almost believe I imagined it,” she told herself.
“And yet—no! It was true. She said it. Marjory Dean said that!”
Little wonder, then, that all the remaining hours of that day found on her fair face a radiance born, one might say, in Heaven.
Many saw that face and were charmed by it. The little rich girl saw it as Jeanne performed her humble duties as Pierre. She was so taken by it that, with her father’s consent, she invited Pierre to visit her at her father’s estate next day. And Pierre accepted. And that, as you well may guess, leads to quite another story.
CHAPTER X
THE ONE WITHIN THE SHADO
WS
Having accepted an invitation from a daughter of the rich, Jeanne was at once thrown into consternation.
“What am I to wear?” she wailed. “As Pierre I can’t very well wear pink chiffon and satin slippers. And of course evening dress does not go with an informal visit to an estate in mid-afternoon. Oh, why did I accept?”
“You accepted,” Florence replied quietly, “because you wish to know all about life. You have been poor as a gypsy. You know all about being poor. You have lived as a successful lady of the stage. You were then an artist. Successful artists are middle class people, I should say. But your friend Rosemary is rich. She will show you one more side of life.”
“A form of life, that’s what he called it.”
“Who called it?”
“A man. But what am I to wear?”
“Well,” Florence pondered, “you are a youth, a mere boy; that’s the way they think of you. You are to tramp about over the estate.”
“And ride horses. She said so. How I love horses!”
“You are a boy. And you have no mother to guide you.” Florence chanted this. “What would a boy wear? Knickers, a waist, heavy shoes, a cap. You have all these, left from our summer in the northern woods.”
Why not, indeed? This was agreed upon at once. So it happened that when the great car, all a-glitter with gold and platinum trimmings, met her before the opera at the appointed hour, it was as a boy, perhaps in middle teens, garbed for an outing, that the little French girl sank deep into the broadcloth cushions.
“Florence said it would do,” she told herself. “She is usually right. I do hope that she may be right this time.”
Rosemary Robinson had been well trained, very well trained indeed. The ladies who managed and taught the private school which she attended were ladies of the first magnitude. As everyone knows, the first lesson to be learned in the school of proper training is the art of deception. One must learn to conceal one’s feelings. Rosemary had learned this lesson well. It had been a costly lesson. To any person endowed with a frank and generous nature, such a lesson comes only by diligence and suffering. If she had expected to find the youthful Pierre dressed in other garments than white waist, knickers and green cap, she did not say so, either by word, look or gesture.
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 135