“And yonder,” he spread his arms wide as if to take in a great multitude, “yonder are the people, hundreds, thousands! Are they less colorful, less gay? Not one whit. For this is their happy hour. Fans, flowers, smiles, color, laughter, beauty. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ No, no, my child! On our great night you will not see the faults of this poor, gray old house that has known the joys and sorrows of three generations of human souls, and which is now standing among tall skyscrapers waiting its destruction; you will see only the gracious people who have come to catch the glow of light and joy that is our opera.”
As Petite Jeanne looked at him her heart glowed with fresh fire. To her at this moment the aged trouper, with his flowing locks and drooping hat, was the noblest work of God.
“Thanks, old timer,” said Angelo. His tone was husky as he gripped Dan Baker’s hand.
Jeanne said never a word, but as she touched his hand ever so lightly, he understood even better than if she had delivered an oration.
Her dislike of the ancient theatre, with its narrow, ratty dressing rooms, its steep, worn stairways and its smell of decay, was dispelled. But with the manager, the director, the actors she had not met before, as well as the chorus, it was quite another matter. To her distress she found that they, one and all, treated her quite as an outsider. Dan Baker, too, was quite outside their circle. He understood it, and did not care. Having been a trouper, he realized that in companies such as these there were those who “belonged” and those who did not.
But poor, friendly, hopeful, big-hearted Jeanne, though she was to have a leading part in the play, had intended from the first to be a friend to them, one and all. And behold, none of them would accept her offering.
Members of the chorus might be engaged in an animated conversation, but let her join them and their gayety ceased while they moved silently away.
Not many attempts were made before the sensitive soul of the little French girl curled up like an oyster in a shell. But it was an aching little heart, at that.
“Why? Why?” she demanded of her conscience, and of her confessor, Dan Baker.
“My child,” the aged dancer smiled faintly, “they live in what might be called a golden circle. The circle is complete. None may enter. It is the way of the stage.