And what a charming stage it was! Angelo was a genius. With a brush and bright colors he had transformed the dingiest of drops, wings and stage furniture into a vision of life and beauty.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Jeanne as she entered the room. “Once more I am on the stage!”
With one wild fling she went floating like a golden butterfly across the narrow stage.
Catching the spirit of the moment, the aged actor, who had been sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet and joined her in an impromptu dance that was as unique as it was charming.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Angelo shouted, quite beside himself with joy. “That dance alone would make any play. But there shall be others. Many others.”
“And this,” exclaimed Petite Jeanne, breaking in upon his ecstasy to spring into a corner and return with something in her hand, “this is the gypsy dance to the God of Fire!”
Depositing some object on the floor, she deftly manipulated the lights and threw a single yellow gleam upon it.
“A gypsy god!” Florence murmured. There was a touch of awe in her voice, as, indeed, there might well be. This god was endowed with power to frighten and subdue. There was about his features something that was at the same time ugly and fascinating. In the yellow light he appeared to glow with hidden fire.
As the little French girl began to weave and sway through the snake-like motions of the gypsy fire dance, a silence fell as upon a first night when the curtain rises on a scene of extraordinary beauty.
Even in this humble setting the scene was gripping. Long after the girl had finished the dance and thrown herself upon the stage floor to lie there, head resting upon one bent elbow, as silent as the gypsy god, the hush still hung over the room.