“But they are your own.”
“Oh, yes. Now they are mine. They belonged to some one else before me. They may belong to others. The success of our play, that alone, will make them secure. My happiness, yours, all our joy depends upon that.” A shadow fell across his dark face.
This shadow reminded Petite Jeanne of a wider shadow that had been sweeping over the wondrous land men called America. For long years this land had known such joyous prosperity as no land before had ever known. But now, as if struck by some mysterious blight, this prosperity was falling away. Factories had been closing. Streets that once were thronged with shoppers, were thronged no more. Stores and shops were all but deserted. Wise men said, “Prosperity will return. It is just around the corner.” Yet it did not return at once.
And Petite Jeanne, sensitive soul that she was, ever conscious of the woes that come to others, was touched by the signs of fear and distress that she saw all about her.
When she spoke of it to Angelo he, too, appeared distressed, not for himself, but for others.
“This will make no difference to our play,” was his optimistic pronouncement. “When hard times come, the people feel the need of amusement, diversion, more than before. Only one playhouse in our city is dark.”
“If so, where is our play to open?” Jeanne asked quickly.
“Leave that to me.” He shrugged. “Plays come. Plays go. A house dark to-night will be aglow to-morrow. I have friends. Once our light opera is on, it will go on forever.”
So they labored and hoped, shouted, danced, sang, dreamed, despaired and hoped again, only at last to go creeping away in the wee small hours to seek sleep. And the morning hours knew them not. So passed fourteen happy, busy, delirious days.
All this time the light opera was taking form. At the close of Act I the gypsy caravan, with Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker riding on burros, departed for Paris.