CHAPTER IX THE SHADOW ON THE WINDOW PANE

Even as the young Italian spoke, there came a knock at the door. With a little cry of fear, Petite Jeanne threw a small Persian rug over her treasured god; then, as if prepared to hold her ground against all comers, she clenched her small fists and turned to face the door.

Noting this, Angelo approached the door with silent footsteps, opened it a crack and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

“Who’s there?”

“Only I, your friend, Swen,” came in a large round voice.

“Swen Swenson! The Swedish night hawk!” Angelo shouted, throwing the door wide and extending both hands in greeting: “Who could be more welcome at a time like this?”
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“What time?”

The youth who asked this question as he entered was a near giant in stature. His head was crowned with a shock of yellow hair. His cheeks were as rosy as a country child’s. His blue eyes were wide and smiling.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal masterpiece!

“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!

“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here shall rest the richest crown of all!”

“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.”
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“Patience!” The young Italian held out a hand. “All must be done in proper form. One moment. I shall light the fire. The kettle shall simmer. Before the fire all will be confessed. And after this we shall lay the plot, and what a plot it will be!”

Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon thick rugs before the fire.

The lights were put out. The yellow glow of flames playing upon Angelo’s dark face transformed him seemingly into quite another being.

“See!” Florence whispered. “He is like a god in ancient bronze.”

“But not so ancient as this.” With fingers that trembled Petite Jeanne placed the gypsy god on the very border of the flames.
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The transformation that followed instantly was startling. Florence jumped from her place. The big, blonde musician sprang backward. Angelo stared with wide eyes. As for Dan Baker, he stared at the thing with the fascination of a child.

And Jeanne? She merely smiled. Many times, at the back of hedges in the dead of night, or hidden away in some black forest, she had seen this thing, had witnessed the transformation of something that appeared all metal into a being that seemed alive with savage, fantastic grandeur: the gypsy God of Fire.

Even as they stared, voiceless, intent, motionless, a sound startled them all—the rattling of a windowpane in the skylight several feet above their heads.

Instantly all eyes were on that window. Everyone there knew that it was a silent, star-lit night.

“It rattled!” Jeanne whispered.

“And there is no wind!” Florence answered low.
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As they looked, a mellow glow overspread the window.

“Who—What is it?” Jeanne’s eyes were staring.

“That?” Angelo laughed a low laugh. “That is only the gleam of Lindbergh Light, the airplane beacon.”

“But does it always rattle the window?”

“Light? Never!”

“But this,” the young Italian added quickly, “this is nothing. Come! We are wasting time. To-night, by this fire, we shall lay the groundwork for such a light opera as has never been known before. You, Swen,” he turned to the big blonde, “you are to write the music. I shall write the play. And these, our friends, are to be the stars.”

“Beautiful dream!” Petite Jeanne murmured.

“A dream for a night. A reality forever!” The Italian youth flung his arms wide in the characteristic gesture that the little French girl loved to see.
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“See!” he exclaimed as the fire died down to the orange glow of a sunset. “The ugly little god smiles. It is an omen of good.”

They looked, and indeed the curious thing from the heart of the earth or from some distant planet (who could tell which?) seemed to smile.

But again Petite Jeanne shuddered; for, at that precise moment the window sash rattled again, this time with an unmistakable bang.

“Come,” urged Angelo, “snap out of it. It’s only the wind. We’ll make a beginning.”

“Wait. Wait but one little minute!” the French girl pleaded. She pressed her hand over her throbbing heart.

“Now,” she murmured as she sank back among the cushions, “it is over.”

“Behold, then!” Angelo began in the grand manner. “You, Petite Jeanne, are, just as you were in France, a refugee. No mother; no father; only a dancing bear. The gypsies, good gypsies, the best in all France, have befriended you. From village to village you have danced your way across France. All France has come to know and love you.
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“But now—” He paused for emphasis. “This is where our play shall begin, just here. Now your bear seems at the point of death. He lies in the shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended.

“The light of the fire dispels the dark shadows of night for but a short distance. At the edge of those shadows, unobserved by those about the camp fire, sits an old man. His hair is long. It curls at the ends. His battered hat is drawn low over a mellow, kindly face.

“That man—” He turned suddenly toward Dan Baker. “That man is no other than yourself, Dan. You, too, are a wanderer. Down the road a short distance is a small tent. Close by are two burros. You are an old time prospector. All over America, with pick and pan, you have wandered.
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“Some one has told you that there is gold to be found in the hills of France. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Dan Baker echoed.

“You have found no gold. You have found something better—a beautiful young lady in distress.”

The color in Petite Jeanne’s cheek deepened.

“The gypsies have given up hope. For them the bear is as good as dead.”

“But you—” He turned again to Jeanne. “You have not despaired. For, is there not still the Dance of Fire? Is not the gypsy God of Fire close beside you? And have not this dance and this god worked miracles in the past?”

The young Italian paused to prod the fire. As it blazed up the face of the gypsy god was illumined in a strange manner. His lips appeared to part. He seemed about to speak. Yet no sound was heard.

“See!” cried Petite Jeanne. “He approves! We shall succeed! Truly this is my luckee day!”
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Once more Angelo held up a hand for silence. “So there,” he began again, “by the gypsy camp fire, with all your dark-faced companions gathered about you, and with the God of Fire smiling at you from the very heart of the flames, you dance the gypsy Dance of Fire.”

As if this were a cue, the little girl, half French, half gypsy, sprang to her feet and before the curious god, gleaming there at the edge of the flame, danced her weird dance as it had never been danced before.

“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Swen.

“Bravo! Bravo!” they all echoed. “The play will be a great success even if there is nothing more than this.”

“There will be more—much more!” Angelo shouted joyously.

“As you dance,” he began again a moment later, when Petite Jeanne had settled back among her cushions, “an aged gypsy woman creeps from the shadows to whisper a word in the ear of the chief of the tribe. Word is passed round the circle. A great sadness falls over all. The Dance of Fire has failed. The dancing bear will dance no more. He is dead.
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“At a glance the dancer learns all. The dance ended, she flings herself before the fire in an attitude of grief.

“Silence; the golden moon; the campfire; the bright painted wagons; and sorrow, such deep sorrow as only a gypsy knows.

“And then a curious thing happens. An old man, whose gray hair hangs down to his shoulders, comes dancing into the golden circle of light. As he enters the circle he exclaims:

“‘Why be sad? See! I am sent by the Fire God to fill the place of Tico, the bear. I shall be this beautiful one’s dancing partner.’

“The gypsies are surprised and, for the moment, amused. They ridicule him in true gypsy fashion.

“As he dances on and on, however, silence steals over the camp. They begin to realize that he is a marvelous dancer.
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“He begins the gypsy dance to the harvest moon. Petite Jeanne springs to her feet and joins him. Her face is wreathed in smiles. She believes the God of Fire truly has sent this one to be her partner; else how could he dance so divinely?

“As they dance on about the fire, they are joined by others, many beautiful gypsy maidens, dressed in colorful gypsy fashion. This is our chorus. They will appear often, but this will be the beginning.”

Angelo paused for breath. The room went strangely silent. The fire had burned low. Still the God of Fire appeared to smile.

“When the dance is over,” he took up the thread of the story once more, “the mysterious dancer binds the bargain by presenting the chief with a double eagle, twenty dollars in gold. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“Instantly it is murmured that this is some very rich American in disguise. For, as you must know, the French think all Americans are rich. And here, with the gypsies speculating in regard to the future, and Petite Jeanne gazing raptly at the gypsy god who has brought her such good fortune—
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“See!” The young Italian prodded the fire vigorously. “See? He smiles! He approves!”

But this time Jeanne did not see, for once more the window above them had rattled. And this time, as the beacon cast its glow upon the glass, there appeared a shadow, the shadow of a man, the man who had without doubt been looking down upon them and upon the smiling gypsy god.

Both light and shadow were gone in an instant. Not, however, until the keen eyes of the little French girl had identified the one who had cast that shadow.

“At such a time and such a place!” she whispered to herself, as a shudder ran through her slight form. To her companions she said not a word.

“That’s as far as we go to-night.” Angelo rose from his place by the fire and dropped limply into a chair. Gone was the fire in his dark eyes. His spell of inspiration at an end, he desired only rest and peace.

“Miss Florence,” he passed a hand across his face, “the water in the kettle is steaming. Will you honor us by making tea? There’s black tea in the green can on the mantel and a lemon yonder on the table.”
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Florence hastened to do her bit toward making the evening a complete success.

“I move we meet again to-morrow night. And here’s to success!” exclaimed Swen, holding his cup high as tea was poured.

“Second the motion!” There was a suspicious huskiness in Dan Baker’s tone. “Think of stirring hopes like these in an old man’s breast! Been twenty years since I dreamed of doing big time in a great city. And now I dream once more. We will succeed.”

“We must!” Angelo agreed fervently. “We must!

“Friends,” his tone took on its former vigor, “you see me here very comfortable indeed. Rugs, chairs, a fireplace, a stage—all very snug. All these were purchased with money received for one act plays written for the radio. That contract is ended; the money is nearly gone. Two more months and unless some fresh triumph comes along these,” he spread his arms wide, “all these must leave me.”
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“But they will not.” Petite Jeanne gripped his arm impulsively. “They shall not. We will help you keep them. Yes! Yes! And you shall have much more that is truly beautiful. You shall see!”