Closing her eyes, she attempted to call forth upon the dimly lighted picture gallery of memory some scene of other days, some open air arena, some stage where this one had danced.
“No, no!” She tapped her small foot. “It will not come. And yet I have seen her!”
Then again she gave herself over to the story unfolding so beautifully before her.
In the story played out for Jeanne, Prince Ivan falls in love with the most beautiful of the enchanted Princesses. There follows a marvelous dance done by the maidens. Jeanne as she watched had eyes for but one dancer, the mysterious person she felt she should know, but could not recall.
Dawn comes. The enchanted ones disappear through the gate of the castle. Prince Ivan, in the abandon of love, follows. There comes the unearthly din of gongs and bells. A host of weird creatures come out to attack him. They are powerless because of the magic feather, gift of the Fire-Bird. Ivan is not afraid.
Then comes the terrible wizard who, if he could, would destroy Ivan with his very breath.
For the time Jeanne forgot the mysterious dancer who had once more appeared upon the scene. Carried away by the story, Jeanne had eyes only for the brave little Prince and the terrible creature who seeks his destruction. As the wizard approaches step by step, his hand trembling with rage, his small hard foot stamping the floor, Jeanne actually trembled with fear. Then, as Prince Ivan waved the magic feather and called upon the Fire-Bird to aid him, when the splendid dancing Fire-Bird appeared upon the scene, Jeanne wanted to scream for joy.
Such enchantment passes rapidly. When at last Ivan had triumphed and the wizard been destroyed, Jeanne thought again of the mysterious dancer who had, she was sure, played some part in her past life.
“If you please—” she spoke to her nearest neighbor whose opera glass dangled idly from a ribbon. “Just for one moment, may I borrow it?”
“Certainly.” The lady smiled.