“I shall apply for work,” she had told Florence at last.
“But what can you do?”
“I can act. I can sing.”
“But no one wants you to act or sing.”
“On the stage,” Jeanne had shrugged, “perhaps no. But in life one may always act a part. I shall act. But what shall I be?”
“There, now!” she had cried a moment later. “I shall be a boy. I shall become an usher, an usher in Grand Opera. If I may not be on the stage, I may at least spend every night in the aisles. I shall see all the operas, and I shall earn a little.”
“But, Petite Jeanne!”
“No! No! Do not resist me!” Jeanne had cried. “I will do it. I must! It is my soul, my life, the stage, the opera. Hours each day I shall be near it. Perhaps I may steal out upon the stage and sing an aria when the hall is dark. Perhaps, too, I shall meet Marjory Dean, the great one this city adores.
“And who knows,” she had clasped her hands in ecstasy, “who knows but that in some mysterious way my opportunity may come?”
* * * * * * * *