It was broad day. Eusebe had been awake for a long time,
impatiently awaiting a convenient hour to visit the operatic
_artiste_. He thought of going to a splendid store he had noticed
on the Boulevards, and of purchasing at that establishment an
elegant and fashionable suit. But, upon reflection, he concluded to
present himself in the habiliments which he already possessed.
“Of what use would that be,” thought the provincial, “since this
woman loves nothing, and sells herself to the first comer? The
toilet will be unavailing: it is money that is necessary.”
It had been sufficient for these unthinking persons to pronounce
the word “money” before the poor rustic, to make him as calculating
as a miser.
As soon as he could with any degree of propriety call at the
theatre, Eusebe did so, for the purpose of ascertaining the address
of Adéonne. The hour of noon had sounded, when the provincial, with
a hesitating voice, said to a young and pretty _femme de chambre_,
who opened the door at the singer’s residence,--
“I desire to speak to M’lle Adéonne.”
“If monsieur will wait,” said the girl, showing him into a small
parlor, “I will go and ask madame if she can receive monsieur. Will
monsieur give me his name?”
“It is useless,” replied the visitor: “your mistress does not know
me. Tell her I come to see her concerning some very important
business.”
The _salon_ of Adéonne was a very ordinary apartment. Curtains of
blue brocatelle and white muslin hung at the windows. The furniture
included a piano and a centre-table. In a splendid frame, covered
with a bulging glass, were the crowns that an idolizing public had
lavished upon the cantatrice.
The provincial looked around him in gaping wonder. He had never
seen so much magnificence concentrated in the same small space. He
hardly dared to put his boots upon the flowers in the carpet. With
his hat in his hand, he stood as immovable as a statue. At length
his eyes, which had wandered over every thing, rested on a pastel,
representing Adéonne in a _rôle_ in _Val d’Andore_. The white
cap, the Pyrenean costume, in which the painter had clothed the
_artiste_, produced a strange effect upon Eusebe.
During those sleepless nights when he had shaped his fortune
in dreams, his dearest fancy was to behold Adéonne become
his intimate companion, seated beside him under the great
chestnut-trees of the Capelette, or strolling along the road in the
evening, leaning upon his arm. The illusion had sometimes become so
powerful that he had seemed to hear the sweet voice of the singer
trilling the favorite _chanson_ of the country:--
“Baisse-toi, montagne,
Lève-toi, vallée,
Que je puisse voir
Ma mie Jeannette.”
From the song to the national costume there was only the flash of
a desire. Without being absolutely the same, the costume in which
_Rose de Mai_ was clothed had a strong similitude to that of _ma
mie Jeannette_. The provincial forgot Adéonne. Entirely absorbed in
the dreams which he had cherished for the last two months, his mind
wandered in the sweet fields of revery. It seemed to him that he
had always known her whose image filled his heart.
A curtain was softly raised, and Adéonne advanced without Eusebe,
who was lost in contemplation, noticing her. She scrutinized the
stranger for a few seconds, but it seemed as if her survey did not
terminate in fixing her idea of his social position. One moment she
wondered if the peculiar rapt expression of the young man was not
a piece of acting. But the sparkle of his eye, the pallor of his
brow, and the quick beating of his heart revealed to the actress,
accustomed to witnessing acting and to acting herself, a sentiment
profound and sincere.
“You wish to see me, monsieur,” said she. “What do you require of
me?”
Eusebe started as if he had been suddenly roused from slumber, and,
in his turn, he looked at Adéonne.
The cantatrice wore a dress of black satin. A collar and ruffles
of Holland lace were the only addition to this simple costume. Her
luxuriant hair fell, carelessly looped, upon her neck like a river
of gold. Her eyes were large and dark, and her complexion white
even to pallor, and without a rosy tint. Her lips were pale and
bloodless. She was no longer the brilliant _artiste_ whom Eusebe
had so often seen at the theatre. She was beautiful, but more like
a statue than a woman. Eusebe seemed to want words to express
the object of his visit. Adéonne was too much of a woman not to
comprehend the effect she produced. She felt somewhat flattered,
and said, in a softer tone,--
“May I ask, monsieur, the object of your visit?”
“Madame,” said Eusebe, stammering and becoming red and pale by
turns, “madame, I wish to purchase you.”
The peculiar accent and costume of the young man led Adéonne to
suppose Eusebe to be a foreigner. She understood him to propose an
engagement in the line of her profession.
“I thank you, monsieur, but an engagement of three years binds me
to the theatre in which I am now performing, and I have decided not
to sing in the provinces, much less in a foreign country. I am too
good a patriot for that. I am, however, not the less grateful for
the offers you have come to make. For what city did you wish to
engage me?”
“I have evidently not expressed myself clearly, madame, since I see
you do not comprehend me. I do not come to engage you. I come to
purchase you.”
“For whom?” asked the _artiste_, with disgust.
“For myself.”
“If this is done for a wager, monsieur, I find it to be in more
than questionable taste. If it be a jest, I think it very gross and
insulting.”
“It is neither the one nor the other,” said Eusebe, terrified by
the indignation of the cantatrice.
“Begone, monsieur!” exclaimed Adéonne, imperiously. “Begone, or
I will have you driven from the house. You have come to insult a
woman, under her own roof, who has never done you wrong. It is
cowardly!”
“Madame,” cried Eusebe, falling upon his knees, “madame, pity me.
I am not so censurable as I may seem, I assure you. Insult you! Oh,
if you only knew!--I will tell you as soon as these tears cease to
stifle me. Insult you! It is impossible. I do not know how I ought
to speak. You see I am but a poor rustic,--yes, only a rustic.
When you have heard me, you will pardon me,--I know you will. You
can drive me away afterwards, if you please. Give me but a minute:
I will not abuse the privilege. Listen, and then it will not be
necessary to drive me away, for I shall go of my own accord. You
can see that I am not wicked. Others have found me good and mild.
But I am from the country, and there people do not act as they
do in the city. I have come to learn. My father sent me here for
that. For only three months have I been in Paris. About one month
had elapsed when I first saw you. It was on Wednesday: I did not
expect to see you when I went to the theatre. I saw you remove your
mask; and if you only knew what I have felt and suffered since
then. I cannot tell you. It seemed to me that I had never seen but
one woman. I was at once very happy and very miserable. At night I
closed my eyes only to behold you in the dark. When day came again,
you disappeared, and I slept only to forget that I saw you no more.
It was not my fault. I went to the theatre without dreaming of the
consequences. How could I? I did wrong to return every evening; but
I could not help it. Do not drive me away yet.”
“Continue,” murmured Adéonne.
“You may imagine that I was happy,--very happy. When I had looked
at you all the evening, I returned home, only to indulge in dreams
the most charming you can conceive. You were born, like me, at
Capelette. When I saw this portrait in which you appear as a
peasant, I believed that my dreams were to be realized. I fancied
that I arose early in the morning to behold you sleeping. Then I
went to gather flowers to strew the path where you loved to walk.
I said to my father, ‘Father, you wish to know where the true is
to be found. The true is happiness.’ My father called you his
daughter, and thanked you for having brought joy to his household.
In the evening we went to the banks of the river. You sang; and I
was happy. All this seemed like reality, and I felt myself living
with you and for you. I thought I passed entire days by your side.
One day, we were seated on the rock of La Jouve, whence a young
maiden threw herself into the river because the one she loved had
ceased to love her in return. I had a gun with me, and was about to
fire at a bird, when you said, ‘Do not kill it,’ and laid your hand
gently upon my shoulder. I spared the bird, and kissed the spot
where your hand had touched me. You see, I recall all this, yet
know that it was only a dream.
“One day, I was in the country with three friends. They succeeded
in wringing my secret from me. Then they censured and mocked me.
They said--they are cowards! Do not force me to repeat what they
said. If you will not pardon me, I will kill them.”
“Tell me all. My pardon is granted on that condition.”
“Well, they told me--ah! it is too bad! I repeat it only to be
assured of pardon--for it burns my lips--they told me that you
were a worthless woman, without heart, without soul, a creature
cursed of God, selling yourself to all who would buy. After having
suffered for three days and three nights, I have taken my money and
have come to make the purchase. Pardon me now; for I have told you
all.”
“You wish to buy me,” said Adéonne, whose countenance had reflected
no emotion whatever during this strange recital: “are you, then, so
rich?”
“I have here all that I possess,--forty-eight thousand francs.”
“And you think that for this sum I will give myself to you for
eternity?” said the cantatrice, smiling.
“No; but for a moment I have had the foolish hope that for this
money, and through pity, you would permit me to look at you, to
touch your hand, to hear your voice, and then, at sunset, I would
depart so happy as to bless your memory forever.”
“What? Only for a day?”
“Three hours,--two,--one.”
“On your word?”
“I have never lied.”
“Be seated,” said Adéonne, coldly. Then the cantatrice summoned her
_femme de chambre_, to whom she said,--
“Jenny, I am not at home to anybody.”