She watched, breathless, as a priest, coming from the monastery, rebuked him for practicing what he believed to be a sinful art. She suffered with the juggler as he fought a battle with his soul. When he came near to the door of the monastery that, being entered, might never again be abandoned, she wished to rise and shout:
“No! No! Juggler! Stay with the happy people in the bright sunshine. Show them more of your art. Life is too often sad. Bring joy to their lives!”
She said, in reality, nothing. When at last the curtain fell, she was filled with one desire: to be for one short hour the juggler of Notre Dame. She knew the words of his song; had practiced his simple tricks.
“Why not? Sometime—somewhere,” she breathed.
“Sometime? Somewhere?” She realized in an instant that no place could be quite the same to her as this one that in all its glories of green and gold surrounded her now.
When the curtain was up again the stage scene remained the same; but the gay peasants, the juggler, were gone.
After some moments of waiting Jeanne realized that this scene had been set for the night’s performance, that this scene alone would be rehearsed upon the stage.
“They are gone! It is over!” How empty her life seemed now. It was as if a great light had suddenly gone out.
Stealing from her place, she crept down the aisle, entered a door and emerged at last upon a dark corner of the stage.
For a moment, quite breathless, she stood there in the shadows, watching, listening.