CHAPTER XI

A DANCE FOR THE SPIRITS

When Jeanne arrived at the rooms late that night, after her evening among the opera boxes, she found a half burned out fire in the grate and a rather amusing note from Florence on the table:

"I am asleep. Do not disturb me." This is how the note ran.

She read the note and smiled. "Poor, dear, big Florence," she murmured. "How selfish I am! She works hard. Often she needs rest that she does not get. Yet I am always hoping that she will be here to greet me and to cheer me with jolly chatter and something warm to drink."

Still in this thoughtful mood, she entered her chamber. She did not switch on the light at once, but stood looking out of the window. Somewhat to her surprise, she saw a dark figure lurking in the shadows across the street.

"Who could it be?" she whispered.

She had little hope of solving this problem when an automobile light solved it for her and gave her a shock besides. The light fell full upon the man's face. She recognized him instantly.

"Jaeger!" She said the name out loud and trembled from head to foot.

Jaeger was the detective who haunted the boxes at the opera.

"He is shadowing me!" She could not doubt this. "He believes I stole those pearls. Perhaps he thinks he can catch me trying them on. Not much chance of that." She laughed uneasily. "It is well enough to know you are innocent; but to convince others, that is the problem."

She thought of the lady in black. "If only I could see her, speak to her!" She drew the shades, threw on the light and disrobed, still in a thoughtful mood. She was remembering the voice of that lady.

There was something hauntingly familiar about that voice. It brought to her mind a feeling of forests and rippling waters, the scent of balsam and the song of birds. Yet she could not tell where she had heard it before.

Joan of Arc was Jeanne's idol. Once as a child, wandering with the gypsies, she had slept within the shadows of the church where Joan received her visions. At another time she had sat for an entire forenoon dreaming the hours away in the chamber that had once been Joan's own. Yet, unlike Joan, she did not love wearing the clothes of a boy. She was fond of soft, clinging, silky things, was this delicate French child. So, dressed in the silkiest of all silks and the softest of satin robes, she built herself a veritable mountain of pillows before the fire and, sinking back into that soft depth, proceeded to think things through.

To this strange girl sitting at the mouth of her cave made of pillows, the fire on the hearth was a magic fire. She prodded it. As it blazed red, she saw in it clearly the magic curtain. She felt again the thrill of this mysterious discovery. Once more she was gazing upon strange smoking images, bronze eagles, giants' heads, dragons. She smelled the curious, choking incense. And again the feeling of wild terror seized her.

So real was the vision that she leaped to her feet, sending the soft walls of her cave flying in every direction.

Next instant she was in complete possession of her senses. "Why am I afraid?" she asked herself. "Why was I afraid then? It is but a stage setting, some Oriental magic."

A thought struck her all of a heap. "Stage setting! That's it!" she exclaimed in a low whisper. "Why not? What a wonderful setting for some exotic little touch of Oriental drama!

"I must return to that place. I must see that Magic Curtain once more." She rearranged the door to her cave. "I must take someone with me. Why not Marjory Dean?"

The thought pleased her. She mused over it until the fire burned low.

But with the dimming of the coals her spirits ebbed. As she gazed into the fire she seemed to see a dark and evil face leering at her, the man who had called to her at the opera door.

Had she seen that same face staring at her on that other occasion when she slept in the sun on the Robinson estate, she might well have shuddered more violently. As it was, she asked but a single question: "Who is he?"

She threw on fuel. The fire flamed up. Once more she was gay as she heard Marjory Dean whisper those magic words:

"You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place."

"Will you?" she cried, stretching her arms wide. "Oh! Will you, Marjory Dean?"

After this emotional outburst she sat for a long time quite motionless.

"I wonder," she mused after a time, "why this desire should have entered my heart. Why Grand Opera? I have done Light Opera. I sang. I danced. They applauded. They said I was marvelous. Perhaps I was." Her head fell a little forward.

"Ambition!" Her face was lifted to the ceiling. "It is ambition that drives us on. When I was a child I danced in the country lanes. Then I must go higher, I must dance in a village; in a small city; in a large city; in Paris. That so beautiful Paris! And now it must be Grand Opera; something drives me on."

She prodded the fire and, for the last time that night, it flamed high.

Springing to her feet she cast off her satin robe to go racing across the floor in the dance of the juggler. Low and clear, her voice rose in a French song of great enchantment. For a time her delicate, elf-like form went weaving in and out among the shadows cast by the fire. Then, all of a sudden, she danced into her chamber. The show, given only for spirits and fairies, was at an end.

"To-morrow," she whispered low, as her eyes closed for sleep, "to-morrow there is no opera. I shall not see Marjory Dean, nor Rosemary, nor those dark-faced ones who dog my steps. To-morrow? Whom shall I see? What strange new acquaintance shall I make; what adventures come to me?"