The day at last dawned; but Eusebe, pale and his eyes sunken,
slept soundly. At a late hour, a noise in the street awoke him.
He rose up, and, looking wildly around the room, thought he had
been dreaming. But the incidents of the previous evening, and the
sleepless hours of the night, were soon clear to his recollection.
“No, it was not a dream,” said he. “I was never at the same time
so happy and so miserable: this woman, I see her still. Why does
she exert such an influence over me? Last night I tried to banish
her from my thoughts; but I was wrong, for I am never so happy as
when I am thinking of her. I will see her again this evening, and
to-morrow, and--forever.”
The day wore slowly away. The doors of the theatre were scarcely opened,
when Eusebe was installed in the first row of the orchestra-chairs,
where he awaited the commencement of the play. But the patience of
the poor provincial was destined to go unrecompensed. That evening
they played “Zampa; or, The Marble Bride;” and it was in vain that
he watched for the angelic creature who was the subject of his
thoughts. He returned home sadly disappointed, but determined to
retrace his steps on the following evening.
The next day he was sure of realizing his hopes. Twenty times he
stopped to read the large posters of the theatre. He had bought the
programme, and long before the doors of the theatre opened, seated
in a neighboring café, he read it for the hundredth time:--
=THE BLACK DOMINO.=
Comic Opera, In Three Acts.
SCRIBE, AUBER.
Mademoiselle ADÉONNE will continue her _débuts_ in the
_rôle_ of ANGÈLE.
“What a pretty name!” said Eusebe to himself. “Adéonne! How
euphonious! how it resembles her! Adéonne! She is the only one on
earth who is worthy to bear it.”
At length the hour arrived. He entered the theatre and was soon
intoxicated with the pleasure of gazing at her whom he loved. This
time he took a lively interest in the piece. He followed, step
by step, this singular and improbable story, the product of the
imagination of the most skilful dramatist of modern times. From the
theatre he returned slowly to his lodgings.
“I am like _Horace de Massarena_,” said he, as he entered his
chamber. “The love of the hero of the piece enabled him to discover
his own. I love her, while he is only playing comedy; I love her
truly and sincerely, and am happy in the thought that I shall see
her often. When I see her I forget all else: it is impossible to
describe my feelings. How fortunate that man is who sings with her!
If I could only sing! But I cannot, and I am not sure that, near
her, I should be able to content myself with being a simple actor.
I would not confine myself to the words of the author, to a studied
lesson of love: she would not believe me, I am sure. It seems to me
that I would find something else to say to her, or I would remain
silent. I would throw myself at her feet; I would not take my eyes
off of her; I would prove my devotion in a thousand ways!”
For three weeks, Eusebe did not miss a night at the Comic Opera. He
was happy, but confided his secret to no one. This love, egotistic
and true,--true because it was egotistic, and egotistic because it
was true,--would perhaps have been of short duration, but for the
intermeddling of this meddling world.