“I shall always believe,” the little French girl whispered.
“You have one good angel in whom you may believe to your heart’s content. He is a very substantial angel and not very beautiful to look upon; but he is beautiful inside. And that is all that counts.”
“You mean Mr. Solomon?”
“Yes. I have known him a long time. You are very fortunate.”
“And to think—he is a Jew. I used to believe—”
“Yes, I know. So did most of us believe that Jews had no hearts, that they were greedy for gold. That is true sometimes; it may be said of any race. But there are many wonderful men and women of that race. Perhaps no race has produced so many.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange!” Petite Jeanne mused. “There we are, all working together, all striving for the success of one thing, our light opera. And yet we are of many races. Angelo is Italian; Swen a Swede; Dan Baker very much American; Mr. Solomon is a Jew and he has found me a very handsome young stage lover who is very English, who has a golden voice and perfect manners. And poor me, I am all French. So there we are.”
“Very strange indeed, but quite glorious. When we all learn that races and names, countries, complexions and tongues do not count, but only the hearts that beat beneath the jackets of men, then we shall begin to succeed.”
“Ah, yes! Succeed!” Jeanne’s voice went quite sober again. Unconsciously she was yielding to influences outside herself. As they sat there on the stage mountainside a change had been taking place. So gradually had it come that she had not noticed it. In the beginning, all about them had been stage daylight, though none the less real. Gradually, moment by moment shadows had lengthened; the shades of evening had fallen; darkness was now all but upon them. Only dimly could they discern the difference between gray paths and green mountainsides.
“Success,” Jeanne murmured once more. “There are times when I feel that it will come to us. And we all want it so much. We have worked so hard. You know, we tried once before.”