“I will do it!” she cried aloud. “How wonderful that will be! We shall have an opera. The magic curtain; it shall be like this.”
Then, realizing that there were people close at hand, she clapped a hand to her lips and was silent.
A moment more and the strains of delectable music died away. Then it was that a man touched Jeanne’s arm.
“You are French.” The man had an unmistakable accent.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I would like a word with you.”
“Yes, yes. If you will please wait here.” As Pierre, in a dress suit, Jeanne still had work to do.
Her head awhirl with her bright new idea, her eyes still seeing red from the fires that guarded Brunhilde, she hurried through with her humble tasks. Little wonder that she had forgotten the little Frenchman with the small beard. She started when he touched her arm.
“Pardon, my son. May I now have a word with you?”
She started at that word “son,” but quickly regained her poise.