Eusebe had deposited his will on the _étagère_ of his mistress.
Adéonne regulated his life as the wind blows the leaves that fall
upon a tranquil stream. She made him dress according to her taste,
gave him the books she loved to read, and conversed with him about
every thing that could interest him in the slightest degree. Eusebe
seemed to belong entirely to the cantatrice. This ascendency never
troubled his thoughts. He was happy; and, as he was only twenty-two
years old, he believed in the eternity of this happiness, as
devoted but not pious souls have faith in the eternity of pain.
This felicity might have endured a long time; for Eusebe, simple
and artless, like the majority of those who have been brought up in
the country, never inquired into Adéonne’s past life, and jealousy
was to him unknown. The infidelity of the cantatrice was alone to
be feared. But Adéonne loved with that sincere _furia_ which is
characteristic of women who reach maturity before they love at
all. There was, therefore, seemingly nothing that threatened to
disturb the limpidity of these two existences that appeared to flow
in one.
It was a companion of the _artiste_ who, in this instance, was the
grain of sand which changed the current of destiny.
Marie Bachu was a sort of “double” of Adéonne at the theatre and in
the affections of Fontournay, the former lover of the cantatrice.
On one occasion, thanks to the influence of Fontournay, Marie
obtained what she called a _création_, a new part in an old work
which had been revised and improved. Adéonne complained to the
_régisseur-général_ of the theatre, and declared that under no
pretext whatever would she resign her legitimate rights. Marie
Bachu begged, supplicated, and stormed; but her adversary was
inexorable.
“Think you,” said Marie, “that I must be forever content with that
which you reject?”
“Well,” retorted Adéonne, with a wicked allusion to Fontournay,
“you have been trying to accustom yourself to that for a year past:
you ought to have succeeded by this time.”
The _régisseur_, who comprehended the force of the retort, burst
into a laugh. This hilarity rendered the two women still more
determined in their enmity. While the vanity of Adéonne was
flattered, the anger of Marie was rendered still fiercer. Marie
rejoined,--
“If I have your leavings, it is not your fault.”
“True,” said Adéonne: “I ordinarily give old things which I can no
longer use to my _femme de chambre_.”
“You ought to speak more respectfully of a man who lifted you out
of misery.”
“That would be contrary to all the ideas acquired through him.”
“Say, rather, that you are still irritated at his desertion.”
“_Ma belle_,” said Adéonne, calmly, but with trembling lips,
“do not jest. You know very well that I turned your Fontournay
out-of-doors. You also know that for six months I was so plainly
weary of his company that he thought it a great favor to get a
pleasant look from me. You know this: everybody knows it: so you
must sing another tune. However, I bear no malice. You desire this
_rôle_. Take it; I will resign my claim to it; but, for Heaven’s
sake, do not weary me any more with your ridiculous friend. Leave
me to possess mine in peace. He is as noble as yours is vile, as
young as yours is old, and as handsome as yours is ugly.”
“_Mes enfants_,” interrupted the _régisseur_, “do not devour each
other entirely: it would be a pity.” He then drew Adéonne aside.
“Handsome, eh!” murmured Marie Bachu, so that she could be heard.
“That is doubtless the reason why we never see him.”
On returning home, Adéonne said to Eusebe,--
“This evening, my dear, I wish you to accompany me to the theatre.”