“There is no one,” she breathed. “I am alone.”
An overpowering desire seized her to don the juggler’s costume, to sing his songs, to do his tricks. The costume was there, the bag of tricks. Why not?
Pausing not a second, she crept to the center of the stage, seized the coveted prizes, then beat a hasty retreat.
Ten minutes later, dancing lightly and singing softly, she came upon the stage. She was there alone. Yet, in her mind’s eye she saw the villagers of France, matrons and men, laughing lovers, dancing children, all before her as, casting her bag upon the green, she seized some trifling baubles and began working her charms.
For her, too, the seats were not dark, covered empties, but filled with human beings, filled with the light and joy of living.
Of a sudden she seemed to hear the reproving words of the priest.
Turning about, with sober face, she stood before the monastery door.
And then, like some bird discovered in a garden, she wanted to run away. For there, in very life, a little way back upon the vast stage, stood all the peasants of the opera. And in their midst, garbed in street attire, was Marjory Dean!
“Who are you? How do you dare tamper with my property, to put on my costume?” Marjory Dean advanced alone.
There was sternness in her tone. But there was another quality besides. Had it not been for this, Jeanne might have crumpled in a helpless heap upon the stage. As it was, she could only murmur in her humblest manner: