CHAPTER VII

DREAMS OF OTHER DAYS

Petite Jeanne left the opera house that night in a brown study. She was perplexed beyond words. The necklace had not been found. She had made sure of that when, between the second and third act, she had discovered on a bulletin board of the lobby a typewritten notice of the loss and an offer of a reward for the return of the pearls.

"If the pearls had been found that notice would have been taken down," she assured herself. "But if this is true, why did I go unmolested? One would suppose that at least I would be questioned regarding the affair. But no!" She shrugged her graceful shoulders. "They ask me nothing. They look and look, and say nothing. Oh, yes, indeed, they say: 'What is your name?' That most beautiful rich one, she says this. And the dark one who is only a voice, she says: 'Do you like the opera?' She asks this. And who is she? I know that voice. I have heard it before. It is very familiar, yet I cannot recall it. If she is here again I shall see her face."

Having thus worked herself into a state of deep perplexity that rapidly ripened into fear, she glided, once her duties were done, down a narrow aisle, across the end of the stage where a score of stage hands were busy shifting scenes, then along a narrow passage-way, with which, as you will know from reading _The Golden Circle_, she was thoroughly familiar. From this passageway she emerged upon a second and narrower stage.

This was the stage of the Civic Theatre. The stage was dark. The house was dark. Only the faintest gleam of light revealed seats like ghosts ranged row on row.

How familiar it all seemed to her. The time had been when, not many months back, she had stood upon that stage and by the aid of her God-given gift, had stirred the audience to admiration, to laughter and to tears.

As she stood there now a wave of feeling came over her that she could not resist. This stage, this little playhouse had become to her what home means to many. The people who had haunted those seats were _her_ people. They had loved her. She had loved them. But now they were gone. The house was dark, the light opera troop was scattered. She thought she knew how a mother robin must feel as she visits her nest long after the fledglings have flown.

Advancing to the center of the stage, she stretched her arms wide in mute appeal to the empty seats. But no least whisper of admiration or disapproval came back to her.

A moment she stood thus. Then, as her hands dropped, her breast heaved with one great sob.

But, like the sea, Jeanne was made of many moods. "No! No!" She stamped her small foot. "I will not come back to this! I will not! The way back is closed. Only the door ahead is open. I will go on.

"Grand Opera, this is all now. This is art indeed. Pictures, music, story. This is Grand Opera. Big! Grand! Noble! Some day, somehow I shall stand upon that most wonderful of all stages, and those people, those thousands, the richest, the most learned, the most noble, they shall be my people!"

Having delivered this speech to the deserted hall, she once again became a very little lady in a trim black dress suit, seeking a way to the outer air and the street that led to home.

She had come this way because she feared that the slender, dark-faced stranger who had accosted her earlier in the evening would await her at the door.

"If he sees me he will follow," she told herself. "And then--"

She finished with a shudder.

In choosing this way she had counted upon one circumstance. Nor had she counted in vain. As she hurried down the dark aisle toward the back of the theatre which was, she knew, closed, she came quite suddenly upon a man with a flashlight and time clock.

"Oh, Tommy Mosk!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "How glad I am that you are still here!"

The watchman threw his light upon her face.

"Petite Jeanne!" he exclaimed. "But why the masquerade?" Tommy belonged to those other days and, with the rest, had come to love the simple, big-hearted little light opera star. "Petite Jeanne! But why--"

"Please don't make me tell." She gripped his arm. "Only let me out, and see me safe into a taxi. And--and--" She put a finger to her lips. "Don't whisper a word."

"I--it's irregular, but I--I'll do it," he replied gallantly.

Jeanne gave his arm another squeeze and they were away.

Three minutes later, still dressed as Pierre, the usher, she was huddled on the broad seat of a taxi, speeding for home.