CHAPTER II

PETITE JEANNE'S MASQUERADE

Fifteen minutes after his disappearance into the shadows, the youth, still clad in a dress suit, might have been seen walking between the massive pillars that front the Grand Opera House. Despite the fact that his small white hands clasped and unclasped nervously, he was able to maintain a certain air of nonchalance until a figure, emerging from the shadow cast by a pillar, sprang toward him.

At that instant he appeared ready for flight. One glance at the other, and he indulged in a low chuckle.

"It is you!" he exclaimed.

"It is I. But what could have kept you?" The person who spoke was a girl. A large, strongly built person, she contrasted strangely with her slender companion.

"Circumstances over which I had no control," the youth replied. "But come on!" He shuddered. "I am freezing!"

Having hurried west across the bridge, they entered a long concourse. From this they emerged into a railway station. Having crossed the waiting room, the slim one entered an elevator, leaving the other to wait below.

When the slim one reappeared he was wrapped from head to toe in a great blue coat.

"Ah, this is better, _ma chere_," he murmured, as he tucked a slender arm into his companion's own and prepared to accompany her into the chill of night.

The apartment they entered half an hour later was neither large nor new. It was well furnished and gave forth an air of solid comfort. The living quarters consisted of a narrow kitchen and a fair-sized living-room. At either side of the living-room were doors that led each to a private room.

The big girl walked to the fireplace where a pile of kindling and firewood lay waiting. Having touched a match to this pile, she stood back to watch it break into a slow blaze, and then go roaring up the chimney.

"See!" she exclaimed. "How cozy we shall be in just a moment."

"Ah, yes, yes, _mon ami_!" The slight one patted her cheek. "We shall indeed. But anon--"

The private door to the right closed with a slight rush of air. The slim one had vanished.

The stout girl's gown revealed a powerful chest. Every curve of her well-formed body suggested strength, while the blonde-haired one, with all her slender shapeliness, seemed little more than a child--and a girl, at that. Yet, one cannot fully forget the dress suit that at this moment must rest upon a hanger somewhere behind that closed door.

"Well, now tell me about it," said the stout one, as, some moments later, the blonde one reappeared in a heavy dressing gown and sat down before the fire.

"A pearl necklace was stolen," the slight one said in a quiet tone. "It was worth, oh, untold sacks of gold. _Mon Dieu!_ How is one to say how much? Since I was near, I was suspected. Who can doubt it? I bolted. In the darkness I concealed myself in the drapes that seemed to hide a window and did not."

"But why did you run? You could not have done worse."

"But, _mon Dieu_! There was talk of searching us. Could I be searched?"

"No." A broad smile overspread the stout girl's face. "No, you could not."

"Ah, my good friend! _Ma chere!_ My beloved Florence." The slender one patted the other's cheek with true affection. "You agree with me. What else can matter? You have made me happy for all my life."

So now you know that this large, capable girl is none other than an old friend, one you have met many times, Florence Huyler. But wait, there is still more.

"But how now is it all to end?" Two lines appeared between the large girl's eyes.

"I shall return!" the other exclaimed. "Tomorrow night I shall go back. I must go! It is too wonderful for words. All the rich, the great ones. The sable coats, the gowns, the rare jewels. And the stage! Oh, my friend, how perfectly exquisite, how glorious!"

"Yes, and they'll arrest you." The large girl's tone was matter-of-fact. "And what will you see after that?"

"For what will they arrest me? Did I take the necklace? No! No! Nevair!"

"But you ran away."

"Yes, and for a very good reason." A faint flush appeared on the slim one's cheek. "I could not be searched."

"And will you tell them why?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then how can you go back?"

"Listen, my friend." The slim one laid an impressive hand on the other's arm. "Sometimes we have good fortune, is it not so? Yes. It is so. The young lady, that girl who lost the necklace, she will be there. She is kind. Something tells me this. She will not have Pierre Andrews arrested. Something tells me so. For look, now, as Pierre I am--how did you say it?--very handsome!"

"But, Petite Jeanne!" Florence broke short off. By this exclamation she had betrayed a secret. Since, however, only the walls and her companion heard it, it did not much matter. Our old friend, Petite Jeanne (the little French girl), and Pierre Andrews are one and the same person. On the stage Jeanne had played many a role. Now she was playing one in real life and playing it for a grand prize.

* * * * * * * *

But we must go back a little. Petite Jeanne, as you will recall if you have read that other book, _The Gypsy Shawl_, was a little French girl found wandering with the gypsies among the hills of France. Brought by a rich benefactress to America, she had made a splendid showing on the stage as a star in light opera.

All stage productions, however, have their runs and are no more. Petite Jeanne's engagement had come to an end, leaving her with a pocketful of money and one great yearning, a yearning to have a place upon the stage in Grand Opera.

This longing had come to her through contact with a celebrated opera star, Marjory Dean. Through Marjory Dean she had secured the services of a great teacher. For some time after that she had devoted her entire time to the mastering of the technique of Grand Opera and to the business of developing her voice.

"You will not go far without study abroad," Marjory Dean had warned her. "Yet, who knows but that some golden opportunity may come to you? You have a voice, thin to be sure, but very clear and well placed. What is still more, you have a feeling for things. You are capable of inspiring your audience with feelings of love, hate, hope, despair. This will carry you far."

"And I shall work! Oh, how I shall work!" Jeanne had replied.

That had been months ago. But teachers must be paid. Jeanne's pocketful of money no longer weighed her down. Then, too, times were hard. The little French girl could make people feel the things she did on the stage because she, too, had a warm heart. She could not resist wandering from time to time into the tenement districts where dwelt her gypsy friends. There she found poverty and great need. Always she came away with an empty purse. On Maxwell Street it was no better.

"I shall apply for work," she had told Florence at last.

"But what can you do?"

"I can act. I can sing."

"But no one wants you to act or sing."

"On the stage," Jeanne had shrugged, "perhaps no. But in life one may always act a part. I shall act. But what shall I be?"

"There, now!" she had cried a moment later. "I shall be a boy. I shall become an usher, an usher in Grand Opera. If I may not be on the stage, I may at least spend every night in the aisles. I shall see all the operas, and I shall earn a little."

"But, Petite Jeanne!"

"No! No! Do not resist me!" Jeanne had cried. "I will do it. I must! It is my soul, my life, the stage, the opera. Hours each day I shall be near it. Perhaps I may steal out upon the stage and sing an aria when the hall is dark. Perhaps, too, I shall meet Marjory Dean, the great one this city adores.

"And who knows," she had clasped her hands in ecstasy, "who knows but that in some mysterious way my opportunity may come?"

* * * * * * * *

"My opportunity," she thought now, as, sitting before the glowing fire, she contemplated the future, "appears to be a bed in jail. But who knows?"

Jeanne refused to be depressed. Casting off her dressing gown, she sprang away in a wild dance as she chanted:

"Now I am Pierre, Now I am Jeanne. To-night I sleep on eiderdown, To-morrow I am in jail.

"Oh, sweet mystery of life."

Her voice rang out high and clear. Then, like the flash of sunshine across the brow of a hill, her mood changed.

"To-morrow!" she exclaimed, dropping into the depths of a great chair by the fire. "Why think of to-morrow? See! The tea kettle sings for us. Why not one good cup of black tea? And then--sweet dreams."

A moment later there was a clinking of thin china cups. A belated midnight lunch was served.

An hour later, as Petite Jeanne twisted her pink toes beneath her silk-covered eiderdown, brought all the way from her beloved France, she whispered low:

"To-morrow!"

And after a time, once again, faint, indistinct like a word from a dream:

"To-morrow."