The Magic Curtain Part 27

"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.

CHAPTER XXVI AN EXCITING MESSAGE

Pet.i.te Jeanne was a sun-wors.h.i.+pper and a fire-wors.h.i.+pper of the best sort. She wors.h.i.+pped the One Who created fire and Who sends us light to dispel the gloom of night. The day following her unusual experiences in the lower regions of the Opera House found her curled up in a big chair.

The chair stood before a large window of their living room. Here she was completely flooded with light. On bright days, for a s.p.a.ce of two hours, the sunlight always succeeded in finding its way through the labyrinth of chimneys and skysc.r.a.pers, to fall like a benediction upon this blonde-haired girl. And Jeanne rejoiced in it as a kitten does the warm spot before the hearth.

"It's G.o.d looking down upon His world," she murmured now.

"Jeanne," Florence stood in the door of her room, "did that man, the dark-faced one with the evil eye, did he have a scar on his chin?"

"Y-e-s. Let me see." She closed her eyes to invite a picture. It came.

"Yes, now I see him as I did only yesterday. Yes, there was a scar."

"You saw him yesterday?"

Reluctantly Jeanne turned her face from the sunlight. "I'll tell you about it. It was exciting, and--and a bit terrible. What can he want?"

She told Florence about the previous day's adventure. "But why did you ask about the scar?" It was her turn to ask questions.

"I was out at the island last night. You'd never dream of the discovery I made there. But then, you've never seen Aunt Bobby--probably not so much as heard of her."

Florence had described her experiences up to the time when Meg invited her to inspect her stateroom, when the phone rang.

"I'll answer it." Florence took down the receiver.

"It's for you," she said, half a minute later.

With a deep sigh Jeanne deserted her spot in the sun.

For all that, her face was flushed with excitement when she put the receiver down.

"It's the little old lady of the cameo."

In her excitement she found herself talking in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "She has persuaded Hop Long Lee, the rich Chinaman, to let us see the magic curtain. Better still, his people will stage a little play for us. They will use the magic curtain."

"When?"

"Next Friday, at midnight."

"Midnight? What an hour!"

"Night is best. And what other hour could one be sure of? There is Marjory Dean. She must see it. And we must find Angelo."

"Angelo? Have you seen him?"

"Not for months. He went to New York to make his fortune."

Angelo, as you will recall, was the youthful dreamer who had created a fascinating light opera role for Jeanne.

"But only two days ago," Jeanne went on, "I heard that he had been seen here in the city."

"Here? Why does he not give us a ring?"

"Who knows?" Jeanne shrugged. "For all that, I will find him. He must come.

"And to think!" She did a wild fling across the room. "We are to see the magic curtain. We will weave an opera about it. The opera shall be played on that so grand stage."

"By whom?"

Jeanne did not hesitate. "By Marjory Dean! She will have the leading role. I shall insist. And why not? Would she not do so much for me?

Truly. And more, much more!

"As for me!" Again she settled herself in the spot of sunlight. "My time will come."

She might have added, "Sooner than you could dream of." She did not.

CHAPTER XXVII DREAMING

Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful light opera, _The Gypsy G.o.d of Fire_. No other could write as he--or so Jeanne thought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnight would be here before anyone could dream three dreams.

And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? "His garret studio and at night," Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. "To-morrow we will go."