An absurd fashion that prevails behind the scenes gave the
finishing stroke to the provincial’s faltering passion for Adéonne.
Eusebe, being mild and modest in his manners, soon won the general
favor of the people connected with the theatre, who had a pleasant
word for him whenever he made his appearance there. Thus, the
second _régisseur_ never failed to say,--
“Good-evening, monsieur: allow me to congratulate you. You sang
like an angel the other evening.”
Some one else would say,--
“Ah, Monsieur Martin, you ought to be satisfied. They say that your
_rôle_ in the new piece is charming.”
“Monsieur Martin,” said another, “I speak as a friend. Marie Bachu
is striving to injure you in the esteem of the director. She wants
the _rôle_ in the new production of Meyerbeer. You know that she is
capable of any thing. Distrust her.”
An old man, a member of the company, however, did more to irritate
Eusebe than all the rest.
“M. Eusebe,” said he, “remember that I speak from experience.
Without talent, voice and youth go for nothing. You must not
slumber. If you knew the public as well as I do, you would not
laugh at my prognostications. One fine day a new performer will
appear, and the public will no longer look at you. The management
will follow the whims of the public.”
The corpulent Fontournay,--the discarded lover of Adéonne,--who
affected an easy indifference in love-affairs, and would not for
any consideration have the world think that he cherished ill
feeling towards his fortunate successor, showered compliments upon
Eusebe, after the style of the following:--
“My dear sir, your toilet is always superb: it cannot be surpassed.”
“M. Martin,” said the first _régisseur_, “you are late: I shall be
compelled to fine you.”
During his novitiate at the theatre, Eusebe had smiled at this
absurd manner of addressing him, as if he and Adéonne were
identical. But, as he acquired more experience, such remarks
irritated him. One evening, on returning from the theatre with
Adéonne, he said,--
“Why are you not an unknown woman,--an unnoticed _médiocrité_?
Assuredly, I would be happier. My individuality is confounded with
yours; and, though I have no vanity, this practice is extremely
humiliating.”
“I do not comprehend you. Explain.”
“I say,” continued Eusebe, “that my nothingness oppresses me. By
your side, I am like the husband of a reigning queen. They do not
address a word to me, except to speak of you. This very evening,
that fat man you call Fontournay told me that _I_ had a pretty
toilet. If a stranger asks who I am, they do not say, ‘That is M.
Martin:’ they answer, ‘That is the lover of Adéonne.’”
“And does that displease you?”
“It does not displease me: it makes me sad.”
“Oh, what a child you are! Of whom do you wish them to speak? They
presume that you love me, and, therefore, speak of me to you. What
is more natural? As to that foolish Fontournay, I forbid your
speaking to him at all.”
“But it is not he alone who addresses me in this manner. Everybody
does the same, from the _régisseur_ to the machinist. If this goes
on, it will be necessary for me to put on an old shawl and bonnet,
and pass for the mother of the actress, like Madame Baudry. I will
become Madame Adéonne _la mère_.”
Adéonne was silent. She did not understand the sensitive nature of
Eusebe, and could not prolong the discussion. She finally adopted
the course usually taken by women when they are embarrassed: she
became sad and tender. At length she replied, in a bitter tone,--
“A shawl and a bonnet will not suffice for that: nothing can
replace the mother one has lost.”
Eusebe, hearing this cry of the heart, repented of his harshness.
Hardly had he entered the apartment of Adéonne, when he threw
himself upon his knees before her.
“Forgive me, my darling. I have done wrong, and shown a want of
heart, in awakening a sad remembrance.”
“No, no,” said Adéonne, untying the ribands of her bonnet: “I said
that as I might have said any thing else. My mother never had any
claim upon my remembrance.”
On the following morning, at breakfast, Adéonne saw that Eusebe was
sad and gloomy.
“My darling,” said she, “we tire of every thing,--even of
happiness. I think it is time for you to seek some diversion.”
“I think so too,” responded Eusebe. “This evening I will go and
dine with Clamens.”