  Petite Jeanne’s one big night was at hand. Already the shadows were growing long in her modest little sitting room. To-night, for one brief hour at least, she was to be an actress. How the thought thrilled her! An actress for an hour. And then? True, she had acted once upon the stage of the famous Paris Opera. But that was but a fete, an affair of a single night. To-night much was to be decided. Would the play go on? Night after night would she dance the gypsy tarantella under the stage moon? Would these Americans applaud? “Americans,” she said aloud, as she sat looking away into the gathering darkness. “After all, how little I know about them.” “Americans are like all the rest of the world,” Florence replied. “They love laughter, dancing and song. Then, too, they can feel a pang of pity and shed a tear. Just dream that you are on the stage of the Paris Opera, and all will be well.” Petite Jeanne was not sure. She had suddenly gone quite cold, and was not a little afraid. “Green Eyes will be there. She hates me, I fear,” she murmured. “On the stage, when the great act comes, there will be only Tico and you. The night, the broken cannons and the moon.” “Ah, yes.” The little French girl sighed. “I must try to feel it and see it all as I felt and saw it, a small child in France.” “In half an hour we must go to the theatre,” said Florence. “We will have a cup of tea, as we did sometimes when we were in our cabin.” “If only we were there now,” sighed the little French girl. “Oh, why must we be ambitious? Why do we struggle so for success and yet more success, when peace awaits us in some quiet place?” To this Florence found no answer. She rose to turn on the electric plate for tea, when the telephone rang. She went to answer it. Petite Jeanne heard her answer the telephone, but paid no attention to her conversation until she caught the word gypsy. Then she sat straight up. “I must meet her to-night?” Florence was saying. “A gypsy woman? But that is quite impossible. “She is being taken to Canada to-night by the officials, you say? But how can it be necessary for me to see a gypsy? I know no gypsies. Besides, I can see no one to-night. Believe me—” Her words were broken in upon by Petite Jeanne. “If it is a gypsy, you must see her!” The little French girl was pulling at her arm impulsively. “It is important. It must be. Besides, gypsies, they are my friends. You must remain here. I will go to the theatre alone.” One look at Petite Jeanne’s tense face told Florence that she had no choice in the matter. “I will see her,” she spoke into the telephone. “Send her over at once.” They drank their tea in silence. The night was too full of portent for words. “Gypsy?” Florence thought. “What can she want of me?” Then she thought of those gypsies they had seen in the north country. Had they made their way to Chicago? That was not impossible. And if they had, what did this woman have to tell? “Promise me one thing.” Petite Jeanne suddenly leaned toward her. “Bring that gypsy woman to the play. She is French. She knows the tarantella. She has known war, as it was in France. I will dance for her. She will understand.” “I promise,” Florence replied solemnly. The moment for Jeanne’s departure arrived. Florence saw her carefully packed into the car sent from the theatre, then she returned to her room to wait. With Jeanne gone, the place seemed strangely still. The clock ticked solemnly. From somewhere in the distance a fire siren set up a mournful wail. “She is too much for me,” she whispered, speaking of Jeanne. “Think of her forcing me to remain here to meet a ragged gypsy, and this the night of all nights. And then I must bring that strange person to her show her first night!” A knock sounded at the door. She sprang up to open it. A man stood there, not a woman. For a moment she did not see the woman behind him in the shadows. “I beg your pardon,” said the man, “I am an immigration officer. This woman and her companions entered our country without permission. We found them in the west side settlement. They must return to Canada. This woman insisted upon seeing you.” He pushed the short, brown woman into the light. Instantly the girl recognized her, and gasped. She was the mother of the beautiful child that had so narrowly escaped drowning. “You wished to see me?” she asked as soon as she gained possession of her voice. “Yes. You good. You kind. You not bad. Gypsy not forget. I must tell.” Mystified, Florence motioned her to a seat. The tale the woman had to tell was a long one, and passing strange. In her broken tongue, with many repetitions, it was long in the telling. And all the time the clock was ticking away the moments. Petite Jeanne’s great hour approached. |
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