When at last, quite out of breath, she sprang high to clear the platform and land squarely in the stout arms of Bihari who, holding her still aloft, shouted, “Viva La Petite Jeanne! Long live the little French girl!” the crowd went mad.
Was there any question regarding the winner of the dance contest? None at all. When the tumult had subsided, without a word the man on the platform tossed the sheaf of bills straight into Jeanne’s waiting hands.
“Here!” Jeanne whispered hoarsely to the frail girl whose shawl she had borrowed, “Take this and hide it deep, close to your heart!” She crowded the prize money into the astonished girl’s hand. Then, as the crowd began surging in, she threw the bright shawl to its place on the girl’s shoulders.
“Tha—thanks for trusting the prize with me.” The girl smiled.
“Trusting you!” Jeanne exclaimed low. “It’s yours, all yours! Take it to your mother.”
“You can’t mean it! All—all that?” Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes.
“I do,” Jeanne replied hurriedly. “This is the spirit of the road. We are gypsies, you and I. Today I have a little. Tomorrow I shall be poor and someone shall help me. This is life.”
Next instant the crowd had carried Jeanne away. But close by her side was Bihari.
As the crowd thinned a little Jeanne caught sight of a forbidding face close at hand. It was the woman who, a few moments before, had believed her own dancer to be the winner. Stepping close, she hissed a dozen words in Jeanne’s ear. The words were spoken in the language of the gypsies. Only Jeanne understood. Though her face blanched, she said never a word in reply.
“Bihari,” she said ten minutes later as they sat on stools drinking cups of black tea and munching small meat pies, “do you remember that dark woman?”