The order given by Adéonne to her _femme de chambre_ had been so
scrupulously observed that up to ten o’clock on the ensuing morning
nobody had succeeded in gaining admittance to the boudoir of the
comédienne.
Silence and obscurity reigned in the apartment. Long after the sun
had risen, one might have supposed that the night continued, but
for the gleams of light that came through the slight apertures
between the curtains of the windows.
At length, Adéonne, in the same attire she had worn on the previous
evening, opened, with extreme caution, the door which led from
her chamber to the saloon. She paused at each creak of the lock.
Closing the door with the same care, she traversed, with the
lightness of a sylph, the two rooms which separated her boudoir
from the dining-room. She advanced so noiselessly that her _femme
de chambre_, who was writing to her lover,--a dragoon of the third
regiment,--did not hear her approach.
“What are you doing there, Jenny?” inquired Adéonne, in a low voice.
“Madame may see for herself,” replied the girl, quite embarrassed.
“I am writing to my cousin.”
“To your lover. What does he do?”
“He is a soldier. We are going to be married.”
“Why does he not come to see you?”
“Madame has ordered me not to receive anybody.”
“I will permit you now.”
“Madame is very kind.”
“Soldiers are always honest fellows,” added the cantatrice, as a
reason for making the concession.
“Madame may be sure that he comes with the best motives.”
“That is a matter of indifference to me. Get breakfast immediately,
and without noise.”
Adéonne returned to her boudoir, and applied herself to arranging
her somewhat disordered tresses. When she had succeeded in giving
them the desired contour, she remained pensive, her face supported
by her fair hand. Two or three times she arose as if to go to her
chamber. Once her delicate fingers even touched the door-knob; but
she returned and seated herself again, as though she could not
decide how to proceed. A slight rustle caused her to start. She
listened attentively. Her bosom heaved with sudden agitation, and a
deadly pallor spread over her countenance. Eusebe partially opened
the door, and, upon perceiving Adéonne, remained motionless.
“I thought I had been dreaming,” said the provincial.
Adéonne threw herself upon his neck, and held him long in her
embrace.
“Come, tell me that you love me, my dear Eusebe,” she murmured,
leading him to the divan; “or, no----tell me nothing. Let me look
at you. Yes: it is, indeed, you. How handsome you are! Say that you
will love me always!”
“I will,” replied Eusebe. “I would say many things, if I only knew
how; but I cannot find words. I am so ignorant! But I love you very
dearly. I am happy beyond expression.”
“Listen, my good angel,” she said. “We will never separate. Shall
it not be so? You have nothing to do: you have told me so already.
We will never separate. If you would not remain here, I will
follow wherever you wish to go. If you desire it, I will quit the
theatre,--every thing.”
“I do not wish you to make any sacrifice for me. That is not
necessary to my happiness.”
“No sacrifice! I have never clung to any thing, for I have never
had any thing to love: now I must cling to you, for I love you. I
have never had but one dream, and that was to be loved as you love
me. I believed that I should never be thus blessed. I was wrong:
was I not?”
“Like you, I have a full heart,” replied Eusebe. “I have no words
to express all I feel.”
“This love, too, will render me good, as well as happy,” said
Adéonne. “I have told my maid that she could receive her lover:
this was prompted by the new feelings kindled in my heart. Thus
good often results from intentions that are evil. If your friends
had not told you that I was a worthless creature, you would not
have ventured to visit me. If you had not come, I should never
have loved anybody. Do not you believe in a good and overruling
Providence, my dear Eusebe?”
“When I was a child, my mother taught me to pray. Later in life, my
father told me that if any man believed in God, he would do many
things of which he would not otherwise be capable.”
“Your father, it would seem, is a queer man. But no matter. I love
him because he is your father. He wishes you to be instructed: he
is right. I will teach you life as it is. I know it thoroughly. I
have been so unfortunate! We women are wiser than you men: we know
every thing without the process of learning. When I think of your
anxiety to distinguish the false from the true, I could laugh, if I
did not love you so dearly. There is nothing true, my dear Eusebe,
but love!”