All this was lost to Jeanne. Her back had been turned. Her mind had been filled by a magic panorama, a picture of that which was to pass across the opera stage that night. Thus does devotion to a great art cause us to forget the deepest, darkest trouble in our lives.
All during that long evening Petite Jeanne found herself profoundly puzzled. Why was nothing said to her regarding the pearls? Why was she not arrested?
“They have been found,” she told herself at last. Yet she doubted her own words, as well she might.
Two incidents of the evening impressed her. As she left the box during an intermission the rich girl turned a bright smile full upon her as she said:
“What is your name?”
Caught off her guard, the little French girl barely escaped betraying her secret. The first sound of “Jeanne” was upon her lips when of a sudden, without so much as a stammer or blush, she answered:
“Pierre Andrews, if you please.”
“What a romantic name.” The girl smiled again, then passed on.
“Now why did she do that?” Jeanne’s head was in a whirl.
Scarcely had she regained her composure when a voice behind her asked: “Are you fond of the opera?”