A moment later the taxi came to a grinding stop before the theatre. Here they were, at last.
* * * * * * * *
At that moment Petite Jeanne sat in a dark corner backstage, engulfed in despair. The curtain was down. The scene shifters were preparing for the great third act. The orchestra could be heard faintly. Her zero hour was at hand.
Thus far, the play had gone well. Its fate now lay in her hands. The big scene, the gypsy dance on a battlefield under the moon, would decide all.
And to Petite Jeanne at that moment all seemed lost. “If only they were my own French people,” she moaned.
At that moment all the hateful acts performed by her people against visiting Americans since the war, passed through her mind.
“How they must hate us!” she thought in deep despair. “And they know I am French. These Americans. They are so tremendous in their approval, so terrible in their disapproval! How can I dance before them? If only Florence and that gypsy woman were here!”
At that moment of sheer despair, a hand was laid upon her shoulder. A voice spoke to her.
“Cheer up, sister!” the voice said. “You are going to be a wonder! Only forget them all, and dance as you danced that night in the forest beneath a real moon. That was heavenly!”
The little French girl started in astonishment. She found herself looking up into the peculiar greenish eyes of the stage star she had thought of as her enemy.