“I—I am only an usher. See!” She stripped off the juggler’s garb, and stood there in black attire. “Please do not be too hard. I have harmed nothing. See! I will put it all back.” This, with trembling fingers, she proceeded to do. Then in the midst of profound silence, she retreated into the shadows.
She had barely escaped from the stage into the darkness of the opera pit when a figure came soft-footedly after her.
She wished to flee, but a voice seemed to whisper, “Stay!”
The word that came ten seconds after was, “Wait! You can’t deceive me. You are Petite Jeanne!”
It was the great one, Marjory Dean, who spoke.
“Why, how—how could you know?” Jeanne was thrown into consternation.
“Who could not know? If one has seen you upon the stage before, he could not be mistaken.
“But, little girl,” the great one’s tone was deep and low like the mellow chimes of a great clock, “I will not betray you.
“You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better. And you, Jeanne, are much like me. A little make-up, and there you are, Petite Jeanne, who is Marjory Dean. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place, to do this first act for me, before all this.” She spread her arms wide as if to take in a vast audience.
“No!” Jeanne protested. “I could never do that. Never! Marjory Dean, I—no! No!”