Hour of Enchantment, Page 3

  CHAPTER III FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS

  All her life Florence had lived in the great and noisy city.

  Not so Petite Jeanne. If you have read of her at all you will know thatas a child she had been a vagabond with gypsies of France, a verybeautiful vagabond, an accomplished dancer, but a vagabond all the same.How this slender, golden-haired child of France came to America and howat last France discovered her once more and carried her back to be themistress of a grand old chateau is no part of our story.

  It was enough for Jeanne that she was here with her good pal Florence,that they lived on the top floor of an ancient rooming house, that theymight come and go as they pleased, and that if she chose she might oncemore turn vagabond for a day, a week, or a month.

  For the moment she was interested most of all in this vast and mostmarvelous of all carnivals, the Century of Progress. For many this wasnot a carnival at all, but a serious attempt to place before man's eyeall the stupendous achievements of mankind. For Jeanne it was a vastcarnival, a place to enjoy one's self, a thing of beauty and a joyforever.

  Now as she tripped along at Florence's side she whispered: "See! Are notthose steel towers mysterious? They are like fingers pointing to thestars we do not see because the clouds hide them. And the little rocketcars waiting there--they seem ready not just to carry you over to theisland of enchantment, but on and on through the sky to the moon, toVenus, to Mars.

  "But, oo, la la! Here I am dreaming again. We must hurry. Those terribleOrientals may be turning our room upside down this very moment."

  More often than not, in this life, it happens that the thing we mostexpect does not happen at all. With breath coming quick and short PetiteJeanne and Florence climbed the four flights of stairs leading to theirroom only to find everything as they had left it.

  "Oh!" Jeanne breathed. "There is no one!"

  "One would think," Florence laughed, "that you were disappointed."

  "But no!" Jeanne made a face of horror. "What could one do if she were tofind her room filled with queer little yellow men?"

  "Throw them down the stairs."

  "Ah, yes, you--you who are always tumbling around in a gymnasium. Butpoor little me? Bah! It is quite im-poss-i-ble. I am glad they are nothere.

  "But, see!" The little French girl's voice changed. She dragged a curiousbox-like trunk from beneath the bed. "See what we have here.

  "I had the worst time getting it open, this box," she complained. "Thelocks, they were strong.

  "But, look!"

  She held up a curious sort of banner on which was pictured a Chinese ladyholding out her hand so that a flock of bright colored butterflies mightlight on it.

  "Only a dusty Chinese banner!" Florence was disappointed. "Is thereanything else?"

  "Many more like this. Always the picture is different. I love them. Theyare so odd!"

  "You may have them." Florence was very weary. She began disrobing for thenight.

  "See! Here is a jolly little bell!" A mellow tinkle rang out.

  Florence laughed. "Bronze. You can buy one just like it at the Chinkstore on Wabash. It's too bad, little old sister." She put her armsaffectionately about her slender companion. "We have lost the bestthing--a three-bladed dagger set with rubies and diamonds.

  "But cheer up!" She tossed back the bed covers. "To-morrow will come. Andafter that another to-morrow. I shall never forget that long-earedChinaman. And if we meet!" She made a gesture of violence.

  "Besides," she added as she crept into bed, "there are many more boxes tobe sold in the future. Better luck next time."

  Scarcely had her head touched the pillow than she was fast asleep.

  Jeanne did not sleep. There was no need. For was she not at heart agypsy? And did not gypsies sleep when the spirit moved them to do so?Twenty hours in one long sleep and after that, if opportunity presenteditself, twenty hours of adventure.

  Ah, yes, no rising at seven to gulp down toast and coffee, then to dashfor a train. Jeanne was a real vagabond. Curled up among the cushions inthe sunshine, she had slept long hours that day.

  So now she dragged the mysterious box into their tiny living room andspread its highly colored banners on every available piece of furniture.

  "Truly," she whispered, "they are grotesque." She was studying a picture,all done in some form of needlework, the picture of a god with a dozenarms and quite as many legs. "But then, they are beautiful, too. Whatgorgeous tapestries they would make!"

  She was thinking now of the all too bare walls of the great living roomin her own castle in France.

  She had not found being rich in France a joyous business, this PetiteJeanne.

  In France if you are young and you are rich, then you are watched over bya mother or perhaps an aunt (Jeanne had an aunt). You must see certainpeople. You must not see others. You must not wander away alone. You mustnot--oh, no, my dear, you must not--speak to strangers! No life was thisfor a sweet and beautiful vagabond like Petite Jeanne.

  So, when Florence had written her a glowing letter telling of the city ofmany marvels that was spreading itself fairy-like across the waterfrontin Chicago, she gave her chateau over to a caretaker, bade him allow allthe good children to play on her grounds and in her forest at will, thentook a ship for America and her beloved big pal, Florence.

  "And now," she sighed happily, "here I am.

  "And here--" Her tone changed. "Here you are." She was addressing the boxof mysteries. "One would think--"

  She broke off short to stand on tiptoe like a bird poised for flight. Hadshe caught a sound from without, a shuffling of soft-padded feet on thestairs? Ah, yes. There! A board creaked.

  Snapping off the light, she stood in the darkness, tense, alert,listening intently.

  "That box!" Her thoughts were in a tumult. "Why do they want more? Theyhave the best.

  "Shall I throw open the door and thrust the box at them?

  "Ah, no, I shall not do that. Mystery, how one yearns for it! And yet howone dreads it! This box, it is ours. We have bought it. We will fight forit. I will call Florence. She will throw them down the stairs.

  "But no! She is weary. They may have the knife. The lock is strong. Letthem spy upon us if they must."

  Jeanne was by nature a child of the night. To sit there in the dark, tothink and think, to wait and wait for that which in the end did not come,was no hardship for her.

  The first faint gray light of dawn was creeping upon the towers of thatmagic city on the shores of Lake Michigan when at last she parted thecurtains to look away at the land and the black waters that lay beyond.

  "_Bon jour_, sweet world!" she murmured. "Now we have a new day. Andto-night I shall go out alone to seek adventure."

  At that she shoved her pink toes beneath covers of silk filled witheiderdown and slept the sleep of perfect peace, while out there by theshores of Lake Michigan fifty thousand happy people romped through thesunshine of a bright summer's day.