“Why, I thought—” She paused, too astounded for words.
“You thought I had fallen from a horse. So I did—a leather horse with iron legs. It was in a gymnasium. Rosemary pushed me off. Truly it did not hurt at all.”
“A frame-up!” Jeanne stared.
“Yes, a frame-up for a good cause. ‘The Magic Curtain’ was yours, not mine. You discovered it. It was through your effort that this little opera was perfected. It was yours, not mine. Your golden hour.”
“My golden hour!” the little French girl repeated dreamily. “But not ever again. Not until I have sung and sung, and studied and studied shall I appear again on such a stage!”
“Child, you have the wisdom of the gods.”
“But the director!” Jeanne’s mood changed. “Does he not hate you?”
“Quite the contrary. He loves me. Why should he not? I have found him a fresh little American opera and a future star. His vast audience has gone away happy. What more could he ask?”
What more, indeed?
But what is this? Florence is at Jeanne’s side. What is she saying? “They think they have discovered the whereabouts of Rosemary’s pearls. On the island.” Would she go with them? Most certainly, and at once. But alas, she has no clothes save those of Pierre, the usher of the boxes. Ah, well, they must do. She will be ready at once. Yes! Yes! At once! Right away!