CHAPTER XXVIII A QUEEN FROM ANOTHER WORLD

No fairy princess, waving magic wand, could have wrought a more perfect change than came over Petite Jeanne and her beloved companions after that hour which the rather ugly Jew with the soul of an Abraham, a Moses and a David all wrapped in one, spent in their studio. It was by this man that they were guided out of the wilderness of doubt and despair into the land of joy and hope. By him, too, they were, on the very next morning, ushered into the most magnificent little theatre Jeanne’s glowing eyes had ever looked upon.

Unlike the Old Blackmoore, it was new. Its bright colors shone gayly forth. Its seats of velvet, its curtains of heavy velour and all its trimmings were perfect.

“How beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed, as Solomon threw open the door revealing it all.
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“And yet,” she sighed after a time, “poor, shabby old Blackmoore! I did so want to hear its walls ring once more with laughter and applause.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the good Solomon. “When a place is full of rats it should be torn down. Why do people live in such places—work in them, play in them? Is it not because they themselves are slow, stupid, without the will to tear themselves away from it all?

“At any rate,” he added quickly, “here is your grand opportunity. Make the most of it, my child.”

“Oh, yes. That I will. Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand, million times, yes!”

And did she? Never had there been a time in her whole life when she worked so hard as on the days that followed. No director with a gray steel face was here; no brass rail where she must twist her toes in agony; no Eve, lacking in imagination, endeavoring to teach where she herself should be taught. Yet there were compelling forces driving her on. Love, friendship, hope, the determination to win; these are the great, beautiful masters that ever lead us on to nobler and stronger lives.
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Success was not assured. Far from that. The Junior Ballet was, after all, little more than an advanced class in a great school. Chosen from the best of young dancers, they were constantly in training so that in some dim, distant time they might perhaps take their place by ones, twos and threes in the ballet of some great opera company. Beautiful they were, to be sure. Grace was theirs, too. But seasoned troupers they were not. For this reason there would not be the snap and precision in their dancing that could be found in a modern chorus. Would youth and natural beauty replace this? Even Solomon wrinkled his brow when the question was asked.

“They will!” Jeanne clenched her hands hard. “They must!”

This was her great opportunity. Still more important, it was Dan Baker’s opportunity.

“I have youth. I have time to win success,” she assured herself. “But for him it is now. Now, or not at all.”
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Whenever she thought of this she threw herself with renewed zest into her work.

The light opera, too, was found to be crude and unfinished in spots. What opera is not? Solomon suggested changes. They were made.

Then one day, after they had been working for a week, a beautiful creature entered from another world. She came sauntering down a narrow corridor which Jeanne had seen leading away from the left side of the stage but had never dared to follow.

This creature was a woman. Jeanne knew from her manner that she was no longer in her twenties; yet her beautiful face did not show it. Like Jeanne, she was fair with golden hair. She wore, draped over her shoulders, a cape of royal purple trimmed with white fox. Beneath the cape showed a curious costume. Made of some soft cloth, it appeared to belong to another age, for it was neither the costume of man nor woman. There was a suggestion of a dress that might, after all, be a long coat. And there were trousers fitting like stockings, and curious, bright colored shoes.
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With no apology for her strange make-up, she shook hands with Solomon and went to sit with him at the back of the theatre. As the rehearsal progressed she turned from time to time and whispered in the producer’s ear. He listened attentively, nodded, or shook his head and scribbled in his note book.

When it was over the mysterious one made her way to the corridor whence she had come.

“Who was she?” Jeanne asked in an awed whisper. Something in Solomon’s manner suggested that he might have come from a visit with a queen. And so he had—a queen of her own beautiful realm.

“That,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily, “that was our Marjory—Marjory Bryce.”

“Mar—Marjory Bryce!” Jeanne took a step backward. She knew that name. It belonged to the queen of grand opera, known to the great city as Our Marjory.

“But where did she come from?”

“Where but from the Opera House?” He waved a hand at the corridor where the lady from musical fairyland had vanished.
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“Is Grand Opera over there?” Jeanne looked her incredulity.

“Did you not know? Come!” He took her hand and led her down that corridor to its end. There he opened a door into a world unknown, a world that in the days to follow was to become a veritable fairyland of beauty, romance and adventure. It was a vast auditorium, much the same as the Civic Theatre, though many times larger.

“So this is the home of Grand Opera!” The place was deserted. Jeanne went whirling away across its vast stage in a wild dance.

“Some day,” she cried, clasping her hands like a child asking for a doll, “may I dance here before all the people?”

“Time alone will tell,” said Solomon soberly. “Art is long. First comes the Civic Theatre. And that is task enough for the present.

“And by the way!” His eyes brightened. “Miss Bryce gave me many valuable suggestions regarding our opera. She is one of the greatest living authorities. No one can play such varied roles as she. With these suggestions, faithfully worked out, we should succeed.”
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He led the way back to the Civic Theatre. There Florence awaited Jeanne.

In her dreams that night the little French girl danced upon a stage as long as a city street and strewn with flowers, while an audience of millions screamed their approval.

“That,” she told herself as she sat up, rubbing her eyes, “was a strange dream. Of course it will never come true. All the same, in our little theatre, surrounded by my own beloved Golden Circle—ah, well, we shall see!”