Petite Jeanne ordered sugar wafers, the others ordered doughnuts, and they all had coffee.
Dan Baker told no stories over that coffee. It was Angelo who did the talking until he hit upon the fact that Jeanne had traveled with gypsies. Then his big dark eyes lighted with a strange fire as he demanded:
“Tell me about that. Tell me all about it!”
Petite Jeanne was tempted not to tell. But the coffee was truly fine, and this was to be her lucky day. Why begin it by refusing such a simple request by a friendly young man?
She told her story, told it very well, told of her wanderings across France in a gypsy van. Once more she danced with her bear down country lanes and across village squares. She sang for pennies at fairs and carnivals. She haunted the streets of Paris.
“Beautiful Paris. Marvelous, matchless, beautiful city of my dreams!” Dan Baker murmured, even as she rambled on.
Jeanne loved him for it. For her, Paris would always remain the most beautiful city in all the world.
As she told her story the dark eyes of the Italian youth, Angelo, were ever upon her. Yet his look was not an offensive one. So impersonal was it that he might have been looking at a marble statue. Yet there was a burning fire in his eyes, the fire of hope, of a new born dream. In that dream he was laying plans, plans for her, Petite Jeanne; a play, his play; a light opera, and what a light opera it would be!
“There!” Jeanne exclaimed as she hopped nimbly off her stool. “I have told you my story. It is a happy little, sad little story, isn’t it? As all true stories must be. There have been for me many moments of happiness. And who in all the world can hope for more than that?”
“You speak the truth, child.” Dan Baker smiled. In that smile there was something so full of meaning, so suggestive of a kindly soul grown mellow with time, that Jeanne wished to stand on tiptoe and kiss that wrinkled face.