CHAPTER XXV

THE BEARDED STRANGER

Though that which happened to Jeanne on this very night could scarcely be called an adventure, it did serve to relieve the feeling of depression which had settled upon her like a cloud after that dramatic but quite terrible moment when the irate director had driven her from the stage. It did more than this; it gave her a deeper understanding of that mystery of mysteries men call life.

Between acts she stood contemplating her carefully creased trousers and the tips of her shiny, patent leather shoes. Suddenly she became conscious that someone was near, someone interested in her. A sort of sixth sense, a gypsy sense, told her that eyes were upon her.

As her own eyes swept about a wide circle, they took in the bearded man with large, luminous eyes. He was standing quite near. With sudden impulse, she sprang toward him.

"Please tell me." Her voice was eager. "Why did you say all this was 'a form of life'?"

"That question," the man spoke slowly, "can best be answered by seeing something other than this. Would you care to go a little way with me?"

Jeanne gave him a quick look. She was a person of experience, this little French girl. "He can be trusted," her heart assured her.

"But I am working." Her spirits dropped.

"There are extra ushers."

"Yes--yes."

"I will have one called."

"This man has influence here," Jeanne thought a moment later, as, side by side, they left the building. "Who can he be?" Her interest increased tenfold.

"We will go this way."

They turned west, went over the bridge, crossed the street to the south, then turned west again.

"Oh, but this--this is rather terrible!" Jeanne protested. Scarcely five minutes had passed. They had left the glitter and glory of jewels, rich silks and costly furs behind. Now they were passing through throngs of men. Roughly clad men they were, many in rags. Their faces were rough and seamed, their hands knotted and blue with cold. Jeanne drew her long coat tightly about her.

"No one will harm you." Her strange companion took her arm.

The street setting was as drab as were those who wandered there: cheap movies displaying gaudy posters, cheaper restaurants where one might purchase a plate of beans and a cup of coffee for a dime. The wind was rising. Picking up scraps of paper and bits of straw, it sent them in an eddy, whirling them round and round. Like dead souls in some lost world, these bits appeared to find no place to rest.

"See!" said her companion. "They are like the men who wander here; they have no resting place."

Jeanne shuddered.

But suddenly her attention was arrested by a falling object that was neither paper nor straw, but a pigeon.

One glance assured her that this was a young bird, fully grown and feathered, who had not yet learned to fly. He fluttered hopelessly on the sidewalk.

"A beautiful bird," was her thought. "Such lovely plumage!"

A passer-by with an ugly, twisted face leered up at her as he said:

"There's something to eat."

"Some--"

Jeanne did not finish. To her utter astonishment she saw that a very short man in a long greasy coat had captured the pigeon, tucked it under his coat and was making off.

"He--he won't eat it?" she gasped.

"Come. We will follow." Her companion hurried her along.

The short man, with the bird still under his arm, had turned south into a dark and deserted street. Jeanne shuddered and wished to turn back. Then she thought of the pigeon. "He is beautiful even now," she whispered. "What must he be when he gets his second plumage? How proudly he will strut upon the roof-tops.

"Tell me truly," she said to her companion, "he would not eat him?"

There came no answer.

Having traveled two blocks south, they crossed the street to find themselves facing a vacant lot. There, amid piles of broken bricks and rusty heaps of sheet-iron, many camp fires burned. Moving about from fire to fire, or sitting huddled about them, were men. These were more ragged and forlorn, if that were possible, than those she had seen upon the street.

Then, with the force of a bullet, truth entered the very heart of her being. These men were derelicts. These piles of broken bricks and rusting iron were their homes; these camp fires their kitchens. Soon the young pigeon would be simmering in a great tin can filled with water.

"Wait!" she cried, leaping forward and seizing the short man by the arm. "Don't--don't cook him! I will pay you for him. Here! Here is a dollar. Is that enough? If not, I have another."

Blinking back at her in surprise, taking in her long coat, her jaunty cap, the man stared at her in silence. Then, as the bearded man hurried up, he blinked at him in turn.

"I didn't mean to eat him," he protested. "Honest I didn't. But if you want him--" he eyed the dollar bill eagerly "--if you want him, here he is."

Thrusting the pigeon into Jeanne's hands, he seized the bill and muttered:

"A dollar--a dollar, a whole cartwheel, one big iron man! I didn't know there was one left in the world!" He seemed about to shed tears.

As he turned his face up to Jeanne's she noticed that he had but one eye.

"What's your name?" the bearded one asked.

"Mostly they call me the one-eyed shrimp."

Pocketing the money, he walked away.

"This, too," said the bearded one solemnly, "is a form of life."

"But why such cruel, cruel contrasts?" In her mind's eye Jeanne was seeing jewels, silks and furs. There were tears in her voice.

"To that question no answer has been found," the bearded man answered solemnly. "The world is very old. It has always been so. Perhaps it is necessary. It gives contrast. Lights and shadows. We must have them or nothing could be seen.

"I am a sculptor, a very poor one, but one nevertheless. Perhaps you may visit my studio. There you will find things I have done in lovely white marble, yet the beauty of the marble can only be brought out by shadows.

"Come! You are cold." He turned Jeanne about. "We will go back to the Opera House. Always we must be going back."

Strange as it may seem, Jeanne did not wish to return. That magnificent palace of art and song had suddenly become abhorrent to her.

"The contrasts," she murmured, "they are too great!"

"Yes. There you have discovered a great truth. Come to my studio some day. I will show you more." The bearded one pressed a card into her hand. Without looking at it, she thrust it deep into her trousers pocket.

In silence they returned to the Opera House. Once inside, Jeanne experienced a miracle. The dark, cold, bitter world outside had vanished. In her mind, for the moment, not a trace of it remained. For her, now, there was only light and life, melody, color--romance in fact, and opera at its best.