  The tale the gypsy woman had to tell was as astonishing as it was fascinating. As we have said, told in her halting speech, it was long. Florence’s face showed her consternation as she looked at her watch when it was done. “Come!” she cried, seizing the woman’s arm. “We must go to the theatre at once! We will miss some. We must not miss all. It is the first big night.” She started and all but screamed as a man loomed before her. The officer! She had quite forgotten him. “No tricks!” he warned. “She must start for Canada to-night.” “But she must go with me first.” Florence was quick in recovery. “No tricks,” he repeated. “None at all. You may go with us. Only—” she hesitated, “we have but two seats.” The man bent a steady look upon her. “You look all right. I’ll meet you at the box office after the show.” “Oh, thank—thanks! But we must rush!” Florence was halfway out of the door. Down the stairs they raced, then round the corner to a taxi stand. Only once they paused before reaching the theatre. Leaping from the taxi, Florence dashed into a telegraph office. There she sent the following message to Sun-Tan Tillie at her home in the north woods: “Bring the trunk at once. Your expenses will be paid.” On returning to the taxi, she murmured, more to herself than to the gypsy woman: “So they were in that trunk all the time! How perfectly marvelous!” A moment later the taxi came to a grinding stop before the theatre. Here they were, at last. * * * * * * * * At that moment Petite Jeanne sat in a dark corner backstage, engulfed in despair. The curtain was down. The scene shifters were preparing for the great third act. The orchestra could be heard faintly. Her zero hour was at hand. Thus far, the play had gone well. Its fate now lay in her hands. The big scene, the gypsy dance on a battlefield under the moon, would decide all. And to Petite Jeanne at that moment all seemed lost. “If only they were my own French people,” she moaned. At that moment all the hateful acts performed by her people against visiting Americans since the war, passed through her mind. “How they must hate us!” she thought in deep despair. “And they know I am French. These Americans. They are so tremendous in their approval, so terrible in their disapproval! How can I dance before them? If only Florence and that gypsy woman were here!” At that moment of sheer despair, a hand was laid upon her shoulder. A voice spoke to her. “Cheer up, sister!” the voice said. “You are going to be a wonder! Only forget them all, and dance as you danced that night in the forest beneath a real moon. That was heavenly!” The little French girl started in astonishment. She found herself looking up into the peculiar greenish eyes of the stage star she had thought of as her enemy. “You—you saw?” Her eyes were filled with wonder. “And you do not hate me?” “I? Hate you? I am your sister of the stage. Your success is the success of all.” Petite Jeanne’s mind whirled. Then her thoughts cleared. She stood up straight and strong. She planted one kiss on the cheek of Green Eyes, shed one hot tear, then she was gone. A few moments later, in the hush of moonlight, with a great throng looking down upon them, she and Tico appeared upon the stage. In this act, as the play runs, the dark-eyed rival of the girl portrayed by Jeanne discovers her father, a great French officer who has lived unknown to his daughter for years, only to find that he is dying. The light-haired gypsy comes upon the scene to find the other girl in her dying father’s embrace, thus to learn that her hope of finding as a father some noble Frenchman is dashed to the ground. Downhearted, despairing, her lover gone, hopes vanished, she remains with bowed head while the dying officer is carried away. Then, as her bear’s nose touches her hand, she remembers her art, the art of dancing. In this art she finds solace. Moving gracefully into the dance, Petite Jeanne danced as she had never danced before. One pair of eyes in all that vast audience inspired her most. Gypsy eyes they were, the eyes of a stranger who had belonged to the camps of her enemy in France, but who, in a strange land, had become her friend. Florence and the strange gypsy had arrived in time. The spell woven over the audience at that hour was sheer magic. The moonlight, the battlefield with its broken cannons; all this, with the bewitching dance of the tarantella, held the throng breathless, spellbound. Then, at the dramatic moment, a soldier appeared. He was dressed in the uniform of a French poilu, but his face was the face of a gypsy. He stood motionless, entranced, till the dance was done. Then, with a cry of joy, he clasped Petite Jeanne to his heart. He was her long lost lover. To crown all, there comes from the distance a sound of shouting. Jeanne lifts her head to listen. “What is it?” she asks hoarsely. “That?” There is the joy of heaven in her lover’s eyes. “That is the armistice. The war is over!” At these words, like the roar of a pent-up torrent, applause from those silent walls of humanity broke loose. Never before in the history of the theatre had there been such acclaim. Petite Jeanne took curtain after curtain. She dragged forth her rival and her lover, all the cast. At last, quite exhausted, she fled to her dressing room, where she found Florence and the faithful Tico awaiting her. “Oh, Florence!” Her voice broke as she threw herself into her boon companion’s arms. “These Americans! They are so very wonderful!” “Down deep in our hearts we love the French as we love no other people.” Florence’s tone was solemn. “Two millions of our boys have lived in your villages. They shared your homes. They ate at your tables. They know how brave and generous the French people are. How could they help loving them? “But, oh, Jeanne!” Her voice rose to a high tremolo. “I know all! All that we wish to know about those mysterious affairs of the north country!” “Stop!” implored the little French girl. “You shall not tell me now. We must escape. We will go to our room. There we will have coffee and some most wonderful wafers, and we shall talk until it is day. Is this not the way of actors? And I am an actress now!” She laughed a merry laugh. “Yes,” said Florence, “you are a very great actress!” “Tico and I are very great,” Petite Jeanne laughed again, for at that moment she was the happiest girl in the world. One moment that wild enthusiasm lasted; then again came desire to know, to hear the answers to many sealed secrets. “Come!” she said. “Let us tell secrets by the light of a candle.” |
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