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Updated: May 17, 2025
The horizon of Paris is so vast that there is always room for a new star. And Jane Zeld, even if she had not shrouded herself in so much mystery, and without a voice, would have been conspicuous for her beauty, which was of aristocratic delicacy. Her lips were like pomegranate flowers in their rich red.
Suddenly he remembered that the Seine was not far off. Why had he not thought of this before? He hastened to the river side, but saw nothing to confirm his suspicions. We will now disclose the secret tie between this man and Jane Zeld. Fifteen years before, the convict Sanselme had witnessed a terrible scene in a cottage at Beausset, a village between Toulon and Marseilles.
The next day Sanselme laid the poor woman in her grave. Then he said to the girl: "I knew your mother. Before she died she made me promise never to desert you. Will you come to me?" Jane Zeld was utterly crushed. She had no will of her own. Where else could she have gone? She felt herself surrounded by a circle of crime.
Her name was inscribed as Jane Zeld, from Russia, and she was accompanied by an intendant named Maslenes. The reporter, armed with this information, proceeded to concoct a legend. She belonged, he said, to a great family in Russia. She had left her home "for reasons which the Journal was not at liberty to reveal."
Goutran laughed as he led the way toward the room where Jane Zeld had been singing. "Can the snare," continued Goutran, "be found in the delicious tones of that voice, which has moved you so deeply? Those eyes are wonderfully bright." Esperance found himself near the piano. Jane had risen, and was receiving the many compliments of her admirers.
"Benedetto never told me," answered Sanselme. Fanfar went to the mad woman, who was crouching near the door. "Who are you?" he said. "What is your name?" She laughed in a stupid way. "I have no name, I am dead!" Goutran was really in love, although for a time his attention had been distracted by the strange affair of Jane Zeld.
Laying the paper before Sanselme, he said, "You will write just what I say, or I will send this!" The two lines commenced thus: "She who bears the name of Jane Zeld, is " Sanselme read no more. With a cry of rage he sprang at Benedetto, who thrust him back fiercely. "No more of this nonsense!" he said.
"No, no," stammered the banker, "but it is very warm here, and I will go out on the terrace a while, if you will permit me." He left his daughter, who seemed to attach little importance to this sudden indisposition of her father's. Goutran went forward to receive his new guests. A murmur of admiration greeted the lady Jane Zeld, the cantatrice.
He did not stop to think of the singularity of finding this note in this place. What did he care for this mystery that surrounded him? He had found Jane Zeld, or rather he had found traces of her. He went to the chimney to look at the clock, for he had lost all idea of time, and happening to see his own face in the mirror, he could not repress a start.
The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected, honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged. Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.
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