It was indeed as if a will higher than her own had planned all this, for this short opera was the one Jeanne had studied. It was this opera, as you will remember from reading The Golden Circle, that Jeanne had once witnessed quite by chance as she lay flat upon the iron grating more than a hundred feet above the stage.
“And now I shall see Marjory Dean play in it once more,” she exulted. “For this is a dress rehearsal, I am sure of that.”
She was not long in discovering that her words were true. Scarcely had the full light of day shone upon that charming stage village, nestled among the hills of France, than a company of peasants, men, women and children, all garbed in bright holiday attire, came trooping upon the stage.
But what was this? Scarcely had they arrived than one who loitered behind began shouting in the most excited manner and pointing to the road that led back to the hills.
“The juggler is coming,” Jeanne breathed. “The juggler of Notre Dame.” She did not say Marjory Dean, who played the part. She said: “the juggler,” because at this moment she lived again in that beautiful village of her native land. Once again she was a gypsy child. Once more she camped at the roadside. With her pet bear and her friend, the juggler, she marched proudly into the village to dance for pennies before the delighted crowd in the village square.
What wonder that Petite Jeanne knew every word of this charming opera by heart? Was it not France as she knew it? And was not France her native land?
Breathing deeply, clutching now and then at her heart to still its wild beating, she waited and watched. A second peasant girl followed the first to the roadside. She too called and beckoned. Others followed her. And then, with a burst of joyous song, their gay garments gleaming like a bed of flowers, their faces shining, these happy villagers came trooping back. And in their midst, bearing in one hand a gay, colored hoop, in the other a mysterious bag of tricks, was the juggler of Notre Dame.
“It is Marjory Dean, Marjory herself. She is the juggler,” Jeanne whispered. She dared not trust herself to do more. She wanted to leap to her feet, to clap her hands and cry: “Ray! Ray! Ray! Vive! Vive! Vive!”
But no, this would spoil it all. She must see this beautiful story through to its end.
So, calming herself, she settled back to see the juggler, arrayed in his fantastic costume, open his bag of tricks. She saw him delight his audience with his simple artistry.