As Eusebe had seen Adéonne from the auditorium, he had thought that
the world did not contain an _artiste_ more marvellously gifted as
a vocalist and comédienne. The hearty applause of the public had
confirmed him in this opinion. But his attendance at the rehearsals
resulted in an entire change of the estimate he had formed. He
had heard Adéonne say, “I am learning my part;” “I am studying my
principal cavatina.” In his simplicity, the provincial thought that
was sufficient. The first time, therefore, he attended a rehearsal,
he was disenchanted.
The musician who played the accompaniment for Adéonne upon the
piano labored furiously, and occasionally burst forth in angry
exclamations, as follows:--
“Bah! You have no ear. You have no idea of that piece.”
“Monsieur,” said Eusebe, “I do not exactly catch the sense of your
words, but it seems to me that you are a little severe with madame.”
“I would like to see you in my place, monsieur, forced to go
through the same routine for four months, and at the fifth, when
you think you have finished, discover that your care and labor have
been wasted.”
“Now, my dear Bruin,” said Adéonne, “do not be ferocious: we will
be very docile.”
“I am not ferocious. But why the devil does monsieur meddle with
matters that do not concern him?”
“Do not pay any attention to him. He is not a musician,” responded
the cantatrice.
After the lesson, Adéonne took Eusebe aside.
“My dear,” said she, “you do not understand theatrical affairs. We
are going to rehearse on the stage. I beg you will not make any
observation: you would only render yourself ridiculous, and me
also. Go into the auditorium, and be silent.”
“I will be silent,” responded Eusebe, who seated himself in the
most obscure corner of the auditorium, which seemed to him a vast
tomb.
“To your places!” cried the _régisseur_. “Attention! Adéonne Pepita
enters. Not there:--from this side. You are to go there.”
Adéonne commenced:--
“Enfin le jour reluit, Lelio va venir;
Rien ne saurait le retenir, je pense.
Le ciel en ce moment commence à s’éclaircir,
Mon cœur joyeux renaît a l’espérance.”
_Régisseur._--“No, no: it is not so.”
_Adéonne._--“But----”
_Régisseur._--“But there are no buts. You say, ‘_Enfin le jour
reluit_.’ You must not look at the auditorium: your eyes ought to
be turned towards the horizon. You continue, ‘_Lelio va venir_.’
It is requisite that here the most complete satisfaction should
sparkle in your look.”
_Adéonne._--“It will sparkle at night.”
_Régisseur._--“I know all about that. You _artistes_ always say so,
and at the representation nothing sparkles. As you proceed, you
should look at the skies, instead of your gaiters, as you do.”
_Adéonne._--“I cannot recognize the skies of yonder canvas.”
_Régisseur._--“That is no reason. But proceed.”
And so on, through a rehearsal full of vexation for the fastidious
_régisseur_ and wearisome practice for Adéonne and the other
performers.
Eusebe was present every day at these tedious but, to him,
instructive rehearsals. His native sagacity, the experience he had
already acquired, and his frequent contact with the artistic world,
led him at last to one painful truth. Adéonne was not a great
_artiste_: he had made of her a divinity; she was only an ordinary
woman, who could not even place herself properly on the stage
without special instructions.
A woman may be loved for three things:--for her superior
intellect,--a love serious, but rare; for her beauty,--a love
vulgar and brief; for the qualities of her heart,--a love lasting,
but monotonous.
The superiority of Adéonne had vanished. Her beauty remained; but
her lover was accustomed to that. She could still boast of her
heart; but she had either too much or too little of that to retain
her hold upon the affections of Eusebe.