The fool barely missed eternal glory by rescuing her. He took a three cent subway car instead of spending a whole nickel on the plush seated car boarded by the villain and his band.
The last scene was in a stone paved, walled court of a fearsome secret prison, where Dan Baker, who had become a voluntary prisoner, revived the fainting Jeanne with one more romantic tale.
Meanwhile, the hero, at the head of a brave band of gendarmes, who in the end proved to be the chorus in disguise, stormed the secret prison and rescued the fair gypsy maid.
The truth of her riches was revealed to Jeanne. She wept on the hero’s shoulder. Then she and Dan Baker, joined once more by the chorus—this time in the most gorgeous of filmy French creations—danced the wild Dance of the Fire God beneath the moon while the ancient god, lighted in some magical way, beamed and grimaced at them from the dark.
Such was the rough outline for the opera, presented by Angelo.
“Of course,” he added many times, with a smile, “the young hero may turn up later with a rich, pompous and irate mother who does not purpose to marry her son to a gypsy. There may be many other complications. But we shall iron them out one by one.
“Fortune is with us in one respect. The plot of a light opera is never very closely knit. So long as there is music and dancing, mirth and song, all is well. And that we shall have in superabundance.”
“But where are we to get the donkeys?” Petite Jeanne asked on one occasion.
“My dear!” exclaimed Dan Baker. “Nothing is easier. There are nearly as many donkeys on the stage as off it.”
The laugh went round.