Night had come on, which, however, did not disturb Eusebe. He had heard that in Paris night was turned into day,—that Paris was more brilliant at midnight than at noon,—and many other absurdities. While observing the rapid illumination of myriads of gas-lamps, he had begun to think that his provincial anticipations were about to be realized. But when the poor youth, who had spent two hours in hunting a restaurant, wished to find a shelter, he perceived that gaslight fell far short of sunshine. Notwithstanding all the attention he devoted to the multitude of signs, he could nowhere discover the word auberge.
His anxiety was great. He noticed a clock, the hands of which marked the hour of half-past ten. He had never before remained out of bed so late.
He had a strong inclination to ask the pedestrians who passed him where he could find a bed; but his mishaps of the morning were vividly remembered. At length he realized that there was no other course to take, and decided to question the first female who passed him.
“A woman,” thought Eusebe, “will be milder and more accessible than a man.” And as, at this moment, a lady emerged from a neighboring mansion, the provincial ventured to say,—
“Permit me, madame, as a stranger who is very much embarrassed, to ask you for some information.”
The lady passed on without condescending to make any reply.
“I have an awkward address,” said the provincial. “That person is certainly a great and haughty lady. I had better speak to this one, who has the air of a working-woman.”
“Madame,” said Eusebe to a female who brushed past him, “a little information, I pray you.”
“This is a well-chosen hour for asking questions, truly. What do you want?”
“Inform me, if you please, of a place where I can sleep to-night.”
“Pass on your way, you insolent scamp! For whom do you take me, you low-bred fellow? Cease to disturb me, or I will have you arrested.”
This cut was too much for the poor Limousin. He felt as if his legs would give way under him. He sank upon a stone step, and, in a despairing tone, asked himself what would become of him.
He was endowed with a strong, healthy constitution. No ordinary peril could frighten him; but this solitude in the midst of a crowd gave him strange sensations: he felt his heart swell, while the tears started.
“Are you sick, monsieur?” inquired a man who was engaged in closing a store.
“No,” responded Eusebe, “but I am not much better off.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Do you want money?”
“No.”
“Then what is the matter?”
Eusebe arose, revived by the sympathetic curiosity of the man, and replied,—
“I arrived in Paris, this morning, from my native province, and already a coachman has insulted me, a soldier has mocked me, an old man has deceived me, a commissary of police has desired to arrest me, as he thought me crazy, because I had saved a man’s life, a waiter in a restaurant has called me green, a great lady has refused to answer me, and a working-woman has heaped epithets upon me because I asked her to direct me to an auberge. Really, I might inquire whether I am crazy, or whether, instead of coming into a civilized region, I have not fallen among a horde of savages.”
The merchant—for such the man evidently was—rejoined,—
“There is, perhaps, some truth in the latter supposition. Come in and take a seat for a moment, and I will aid you.”
“Generous man! Blessings on you! God, I am sure, will take account of your good action; and if ever you or your son should visit distant shores, he will prepare for you shelter in a hospitable tent.”
“I am not married,” said the merchant, “and, therefore, have no son. If I had one, I would not let him travel. For myself, I will never go farther than Versailles, where I am going to retire. I shall be sure to find a hospitable tent there, for I have an income of ten thousand francs. Finally, I am not a generous man: I am a dealer in porcelain.”
“It is not a dull trade,” observed Eusebe, sententiously.
“I invited you to come in,” continued the merchant, “because I knew by your accent that you were a compatriot. I am from Rochechouart. My name is Lansade.”
Eusebe thereupon gave an account of his journey, and detailed the motives for the undertaking,—which, however, the merchant did not comprehend.
“What I can see clearly in all this is, that M. Martin, your father,—I know him well,—wishes you to see the world. It is quite natural. A young man ought to know something of life.”
“Such is, indeed, his wish.”
“But,” continued Lansade, “he should have given you letters of introduction to some friends, who would take pleasure in piloting you through Paris.”
“My father has no friends.”
“As times go, that is perhaps as well. But one must have acquaintances: one cannot live like a bear.”
“My father lives like a philosopher.”
“It is the same thing,” said Lansade. “Now, since your good star has conducted you to my door, I wish to be useful to you. First, take these cards, which have my address. Do not lose them. I will close my store, and then conduct you to Madame Morin, a lady who rents chambers. She is a fine woman, who will take care of you. I am not sorry to take her a tenant. I shall thereby render service to two persons.”
“You are very good, monsieur,” said Eusebe: “I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you.”
“It is not worth mentioning. As soon as I have closed my store, we will set out.”
“Shall I assist you?” inquired Eusebe.
“I have only three shutters to put up. For twenty-five years I have put them up at night and taken them down in the morning. You may presume that I have learned my task.”
So saying, the merchant set about closing his shop. Eusebe was quite another man: his anxiety had vanished. After waiting a few moments, he went to the door. Lansade had made no progress. He stood looking at the shutters, and seemed puzzled.
“Well, this is a nice piece of business!” exclaimed the merchant. “Ah, Pierichou, to-morrow you shall hear from me.”
“What is the matter?” asked Eusebe.
“My porter is a lazy rascal whom I rescued from misery. Two weeks ago, I decided to have the front of my store painted. The painter forgot to number the shutters. Then I told Pierichou to number them with ink. The scamp has numbered them with Spanish white; and now one of the figures is effaced.”
“Well, what is the consequence?”
“The consequence is, that I don’t know how to put them up. If I put the first in the second place, they cannot be fastened.”
“Excuse me, monsieur, but will you permit me to suggest——”
“What?”
“There is but one number effaced.”
“That is quite enough.”
“See which numbers remain, and you will know the one you want.”
“Precisely so. Thank you.”
The merchant closed his store, and, taking the arm of the young provincial, conducted him towards the residence of Madame Morin.
“Madame Morin,” said Lansade, on the way, “is an excellent woman. She has been frivolous and fond of pleasure in her time, but I do not attach any importance to that. I am a Voltairian, like your father. I am a philosopher, also, in my way. Between you and me, I may add that there are few now-a-days of my worth: besides, I have amassed a nice little fortune.”
They reached the house. Lansade presented Eusebe, who was cordially welcomed by Madame Morin, and then the merchant retired.
“Before you retire to rest,” said the landlady to Eusebe, “give me your papers, so that I may give you a proper description on my book.”
“What papers?” asked the young man, astonished.
“Not for my own satisfaction,—because it is sufficient for me to know that M. Lansade brought you here,—but for the police.”
At the word “police,” Eusebe recalled the scene at the office of the commissary, and hastened to give to Madame Morin his port d’armes. She then wrote in her book,—
“Chamber No. 17.—M. Eusebe Martin, born at the Capelette, department of the Upper Vienne, aged twenty-one years, by profession a hunter.”
The chamber which Madame Morin had assigned to Eusebe had been much used. It was in the fourth story. The furniture consisted of a mahogany bedstead, a chest of drawers fancifully ornamented, a bureau, a table, a causeuse, two arm-chairs, two ordinary chairs,—covered with damask which had been red, like the color of the curtains at the window,—a clock, and three pictures,—to wit, a steel engraving of Diana, a colored picture of a Calabrian brigand, and a lithograph, designated as the “Entrance to the Port of Buenos Ayres.”
The finest room at La Capelette was the saloon, or parlor. The floor had never been waxed. Great curtains of white and yellow calico hung at the windows. A walnut table, some chairs covered with velvet, and an alabaster clock were the only ornaments of the room, where, moreover, no strangers were received.
In making a comparison, the provincial found his new quarters splendid.
“Behold,” thought he, “what they call comfortable! It is one of the benefits of civilization; but it produces effeminacy in the strongest man, and it is better to know how to bear up under adversity.”
After this sage reflection, inspired by the counsels addressed by Mentor to Telemachus, Eusebe retired to bed. If his fatigue had been less, he would have very soon comprehended the difference between the mattress of his bed and the soft turf of the isle of Calypso.
The youth closed his eyes and thought of his father, who by this time was sound asleep. He saw himself departing from La Capelette. All the little incidents of his journey recurred to his mind. He rejoiced that he had met with Lansade. He was glad that he had found Madame Morin such an excellent woman, and vowed an eternal remembrance of her kindness. Then he wondered why madame had written in her book that he was a hunter by profession. He thought, also, of the trouble experienced by the porcelain-merchant in closing his store, and of his not knowing, after a practice of thirty years, which shutter ought to go up first. This led him to think of the sagacity of the savages, who, in the midst of a forest, tell by the curve of a blade of grass what enemy they have to fear. He endeavored to discover on which side was the superiority; and he fell into a sound sleep without having solved the question.
On the following morning, at five o’clock, Eusebe awoke, and was somewhat surprised at not seeing the projecting beams on the ceiling, his gun hanging on the wall, and his three favorite ornaments on the mantel. A second, however, sufficed for him to recollect where he was. He leaped from his couch, and threw open the window.
“Behold Paris,” he exclaimed, “the city par excellence,—the crown of the world,—the city of a thousand palaces,—the——”
He paused. A profound silence reigned around him. The steps of a belated scavenger alone disturbed the quiet of the sleeping city. The eyes of the provincial were strained to see the thousand palaces: he saw little more than a throng of brick chimneys. The prospect was not enchanting. He closed the window, and proceeded to dress himself.
Five o’clock sounded. Eusebe made the sign of the cross, and waited to hear the three strokes of the angelus, to which he had been accustomed at that hour; but he listened in vain.
“This is the hour,” said he, “when my father rises to walk in the fields and commune with nature. Pierre curries the horses. Big Katy goes to the town to sell milk. Monsieur the Curé of Moustier prepares for mass. Here everybody is asleep. Is it progress that delays, or routine that advances?”
Not being able to resist the desire to see the city, the young man descended the stairs, found the street-door open, and went out.
This would be the moment to give a rapid description of the Boulevards of Paris at six o’clock in the morning, and to depict the surprises and misconceptions of the young provincial; but, unhappily, descriptions give too little information to those who read and too much trouble to those who write. Then, if they rest the reader, we must admit that they encourage the bad habit of going to sleep over a volume.
Eusebe Martin was neither astonished nor mistaken. He had dreamed, in his country home, of a city built of gold and paved with rubies and emeralds. He saw only a mass of stones and mud. He walked for some time without raising his eyes, and then, looking about him, without giving serious attention to any thing, he decided that the best thing he could do was to go and consult his Voltairian friend, the merchant, who would not fail to give him good advice.
Lansade received the young man with open arms, and detained him to breakfast. As soon as they were seated at the table, the porcelain-dealer began to question him earnestly.
“You see, my young friend, I did not wish, last evening, to be intrusive, or to aggravate your annoyances, by inquiring into the precise object that brought you to Paris. But I hope that now, since you seek counsel of me, you will tell me truly what are your intentions, and what is your aim.”
“I have already told you that I have come to visit the capital of the civilized world, to see life, study civilization, and, if possible, to distinguish the true from the false; and, finally, I have come here in obedience to my father’s wishes.”
“Verily,” responded Lansade, “I do not comprehend a word of what you tell me. To see life there is but one way, and that is, to live. To study civilization you had no need to come so far: it is everywhere. Do you believe Limoges is peopled by savages? They traffic there as well as elsewhere, and perhaps better. Civilization, you see, is commerce, and nothing else. Work is truth.”
Eusebe responded,—
“Then I will work.”
The porcelain-merchant warmly applauded the resolution announced by Eusebe.
“But what will you do?” he inquired of the provincial.
Eusebe confessed that he would have some difficulty in answering that question. Lansade resumed:—
“You had better reflect. Spend a few days in diverting your mind with the sights of Paris. Endeavor to make acquaintances. On my part, I will look about for something that may be agreeable to you.”
A young man, with a smiling countenance, at this moment entered the store, and exclaimed,—
“Good-morning, Monsieur Lansade! Here are your two vases. How do you like them? Are they sufficiently finished?”
“Very good, indeed,” replied Lansade, after carefully examining the paintings on the vases, which were ornamented in the old style. “Very good, Monsieur Buck. When you choose to take pains, you do your work better than anybody else. Here are twenty-five francs. Write me a receipt.”
“A pound sterling. The price is certainly not excessive, Monsieur Lansade; and yet you insist upon a receipt to complete the transaction. Well, give me pen and paper. If ever I become a celebrated painter,—which I certainly shall,—you will have an autograph which will be worth its weight in gold.”
“So much the better for us both, Monsieur Buck.”
Paul Buck was an excellent and worthy young man, who dreamed of glory. The son of a German painter on porcelain, he thoroughly understood that decorative art, and might have earned the means of living handsomely if he had only been industrious. Unhappily, he regarded his profession with contempt. He aspired to be a great painter, and only decorated vases in order to procure the necessaries of life. Lansade, who held Paul in high esteem on account of his frankness and honesty of disposition, introduced him to Eusebe.
Buck was a physiognomist. The countenance of Eusebe pleased him, and he invited the provincial to pay him a visit.
“You wish to study the comedy of human life? I will give you a box gratis.”
Eusebe expressed his gratitude, and, in the simple warmth of his heart, vowed to the painter eternal friendship.
“Friendship!” said the painter. “If you have brought it from the provinces, I will accept it most willingly; but at Paris we have no more friendship. The secret was lost long ago. If we cannot be friends, we will be two bons camarades.”
“Can you tell me the difference,” inquired Eusebe, “between friendship and good-fellowship?”
“Nothing can be clearer,” replied the artist, as he drew from his pocket two pieces of colored glass. “Look at these. This piece was manufactured about three hundred years ago, by a process known to the artists of the Middle Ages. The color is made a part of the glass itself. If you break it, you find the red within as well as without. Now look at the other piece. That was made only a week ago. At the first glance, it appears like the other. But break it, and you find that the red has not penetrated beyond the surface. Do you see?
“Well, this illustrates the difference between friendship and boon-companionship. Friendship permeates the heart of man; good-fellowship only gives it a superficial tint.”
“I comprehend,” said Eusebe.
“To-day, the manner by which color may be rendered permanent and friendship lasting is ranked among the lost arts,” continued the painter. “He who discovers the first will become rich; he who finds the second will be happy.”
“If you will consent,” stammered Eusebe, “we will seek them together.”
“Agreed: it will not kill us,” responded Paul; and they separated.
The son of the respectable philosopher M. Martin had now been at Paris for two weeks. He spent the day in various ways, but in the evening he was invariably found at one of the places of amusement.
In order to become acquainted with the different features of the French stage, he had resolved to visit all the theatres of the French capital, commencing with the most distant.
In the first place, he visited the “Délassements Comiques.” On that occasion the attraction consisted of a “Review of the Year,” an allegorical spectacle in fourteen tableaux. Eusebe was unable to comprehend the drift of the piece, and returned to his lodgings in a melancholy mood.
On the following evening the provincial went to the “Folies Dramatiques,” where they gave another “review.” He could not comprehend this effort at all, and retired before the close of the piece. His mind was more hopelessly puzzled than it had been on the previous evening.
On the third evening he went to the “Variétés,” where there was another “review.” This time the provincial thought his brain was turned.
“Ah,” said Eusebe, “I am the most ignorant being in the world, or else all the comedians and those who listen to them are fools. Why do they paint their faces like Indians? Why do they wear costumes which do not belong to any nation? Why do the public laugh so loudly at seeing them deceive a foolish old man? Why do they applaud when the comedians make use of words with a double meaning? Why do they sing àpropos of nothing? How do they manage to speak my mother-tongue so that I cannot understand it? I will go no more.”
On the following evening, however, he resumed his visits, saying that perhaps the theatres were not all alike!
He passed five hours at the “Gaieté,” listening to the history of a lost child. On the ensuing evening he went to the “Ambigu,” to witness the representation of a drama based upon the history of a foundling. Subsequently, at the “Porte Saint-Martin,” he had the immense satisfaction of seeing in a single piece a child lost and found, then lost again, and, finally, recovered.
At the “Français,” at the “Odéon,” at the “Gymnase,” at the “Vaudeville,” and at the “Palais Royal,” the provincial saw the same piece in fifteen different forms: a young man wished to wed a young woman, and, notwithstanding a thousand obstacles, he succeeded in accomplishing his object.
“When I have seen two dozen of them married,” said Eusebe, “I will save my money.”
Eusebe imparted his reflections to his new friend, Paul Buck, the painter. The artist smiled, and said,—
“Eusebe,—my friend Eusebe,—what pleasure your society affords me! Since I made your acquaintance, I have sought to understand the sympathy I feel for you, and I have hitherto been unable to comprehend the cause. Those who say such sentiments arise without cause are fools. I like you, and now I know why. You were born an artist; and it is, perhaps, for the best that your father, whom they accuse of having neglected to cultivate your intellect, did not spoil your nature by routine culture. You know nothing, barbarian that you are; but you have good instincts, since you have not fallen, as I feared you would, into admiration of the rengaines of the modern theatre.”
“Tell me, pray, what you mean by rengaines.”
“The rengaines, my dear fellow, are all the familiar commonplaces and vulgar and hackneyed sentiments. The narrow and plodding spirits have formed a museum, which they open, at a specified hour, to human stupidity. The crowd have visited the museum for centuries, and departed every evening, perfectly satisfied, without seeming to be aware that the spectacle always amounts to the same thing.”
“I believe I comprehend you. You do not wish me to share the opinion of the crowd.”
“I should pity you if you did. Observe: I am fortunate in having a feeling of the good, the true, and the just. The sentiment of the beautiful—which is the same thing—is born in some men: it cannot be acquired. Happy are those who possess it! They may be hooted and scorned; but they will live in a world of enchantment to which they alone have access. Their lives will be totally unlike the existence of those who rail at them; and, while the latter may be cast down by the petty trials of every-day life, the privileged ones soar into those regions where they revel in the perfection of the ideal,—the true.”
“Are you one of those favored ones, Paul Buck?”
“I am.”
“Well, then, by the affection you say you bear me, and by the love of my father, whose wisdom you admire, tell me where the true may be found.”
“In art:—nowhere else,” responded Paul Buck. And, lighting his pipe, he turned the conversation to other topics.
Eusebe understood that he did not understand. The provincial felt humiliated because he could not catch the sense of certain phrases and words which were, doubtless, clear enough to Paul Buck. The painter, who cared more for a listener than for an adept who understood him, did not take the trouble to explain the theories he promulgated.
As a consequence, Eusebe grew uneasy of the conversation; and, as Buck perceived this, he conducted his friend to a café, where artists, “models,” and other people fond of lounging and chat, were wont to congregate.
But there Eusebe found the language used to be still more incomprehensible than that of Paul. The conversation consisted of dissertations on the æsthetic in art, intermingled with cant phrases and philosophical reflections.
To this resort the provincial accompanied his friend two or three times. He would undoubtedly have finished by understanding the peculiar language of the artistic assemblage, if chance had not given him another occupation and preserved him from this great danger. He escaped Scylla to be sacrificed at Capua.
The occupation of Eusebe consisted in going to the theatre every evening, an amusement which he now thought as sublime as he formerly thought it despicable. Voici pourquoi.
Faithful to his programme, he had visited the “Opéra Comique.” The evening on which accident conducted him to the Rue Favart, the bills announced “The Black Domino.” Our hero was entirely ignorant of the meaning of the word “domino;” but he courageously entered, saying to himself that since he had seen a dozen persons assassinated at the “Gaieté” and at the “Porte Saint-Martin,” and double that number married at the “Gymnase” and at the “Français,” nothing worse could possibly happen to him.
Installed in an orchestra-chair, he looked around at the spectators with profound surprise.
“What!” said he to himself; “these are the same faces, the same men, the same women, I have seen elsewhere!”
And he was right. At Paris there are two thousand persons who go to the theatres every evening for nothing,—artists, literary men, or employés of certain branches of the government, besides a large number of persons who are neither the one nor the other, but who know an artiste of the circus, who has introduced them to an actor of the “Vaudeville,” who knows a musician of the “Variétés,” who is intimate with the secretary of the “Porte Saint-Martin,” who is the friend of M’lle X. of the Grand Opera, who is the mistress of Binet the vaudevillist. Then there are the wives of journalists, the mistresses of journalists, the friends of journalists, the comrades of journalists, the porters of journalists, and the washerwomen of authors.
Eusebe was lost in a thousand conjectures. He was asking himself how he should ever succeed in getting accustomed to the habits and tastes of a people whom he saw only at a distance, when his neighbor at the right, a lean, sallow individual, nudged him with his elbow, saying,—
“Ah! there is Mdme. de Cornacé.”
“Where?” asked Eusebe.
“There, in the private box to the right,—the lady with curls à l’anglaise, wearing a low-necked dress.”
“I do not know her.”
“Indeed!”
“Pardon me if I am indiscreet,” said Eusebe; “but——”
“No indiscretion,” replied his neighbor. “All Paris knows her. Her mother was a dealer in butter at the Halle. She was very handsome, and when she married M. de Cornacé, who was a ruined nobleman, she brought him a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand francs. To-day they have three millions, thanks to an intimacy that exists between Mdme. de Cornacé and Froment, the banker. You see she is a woman of the times.”
“How so?”
“How? Why, that is not difficult to comprehend.”
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“When one does not understand French, one ought not to enter into conversation,” replied the neighbor, angrily, turning his back to Eusebe.
Our hero was on the point of assuring his interlocutor that it was not his intention to be inquisitive, when the conductor gave the signal to begin the overture. The son of M. Martin had never heard any music but that of the vaudeville. From the first measures executed by the orchestra, he experienced certain strange sensations, for which, however, he did not pause to account. Enchanted by the melody, he found himself isolated in the middle of the crowd, and a prey to emotions that were unknown to him, and really inexpressible.
There is nothing that penetrates the heart, and prepares it for love, like music.
The curtain had risen, and Horace had recounted to Juliano his adventure with the beautiful unknown, without exciting the slightest interest on the part of Eusebe. The heroes of Scribe talked of love, a something unknown to the provincial, who would have been wholly ignorant of the word, had he not met with it in pronouncing his prayers.
The entrance of the two masked women made a strange impression on him. His heart beat violently, the blood rushed to his temples, a cold, trembling sensation pervaded his whole frame, and when the woman who personated Angèle removed her black velvet mask, he experienced one of those indescribable sensations of delight which nature accords to those only who have not sinned against her.
Trembling, and his eyes intently fixed on the lips of the cantatrice, Eusebe Martin forgot the universe: he felt his blood coursing rapidly through his veins, and his heart expand within his breast.
He remained in his seat between the acts. One thought alone occupied him: should he see the beautiful creature again who had produced such a magic effect on him? He closed his eyes, in order the better to see her in imagination.
Meanwhile the curtain rose for the second time. During the first three scenes Angèle did not appear. Her absence was the first real disappointment Eusebe had ever experienced. Up to that time his life had been as calm and monotonous as the surface of a lake.
All at once his heart leaped with joy: she had just entered. Pale and agitated, he did not breathe freely until the good Jacinthe had promised that she would do all in her power to conceal Angèle.
“Excellent woman!” cried Eusebe.
His neighbor at the right could not help smiling, while the lean gentleman on his left gave vent to his feelings by grumbling.
Eusebe paid no attention to these demonstrations. His chin resting on his hands, which he had placed on the back of the chair in front of him, he watched intently the impossible action of the piece. He had already forgotten that what he saw was only fiction. His joy or grief augmented or diminished with the development of the plot. If Angèle succeeded in extricating herself from one of her thousand difficulties, he breathed again. On the contrary, when a new disaster befell the poor abbess, the heart of Eusebe bled for her, and his eyes filled with tears. Twenty times was he on the point of springing upon the stage and saying, “I will defend you: don’t be afraid.” Fortunately, Angèle succeeded without his assistance in escaping the snares M. Scribe had prepared for her.
What would the audience have said, what would the police have done, if Eusebe had executed his design? Nothing, probably. The public are amused by madmen, and the police interfere only in cases with which they are familiar. By remaining in his seat, our poor provincial caused himself to be put out-of-doors.
The curtain rose for the third time. Angèle had just arrived at the convent, and sang the famous rondeau—
“Ah! what a night!”
She detailed pathetically the perils she had encountered during the frightful night,—recounted her adventures with the drunken soldiers, the thief, who had robbed her of her golden cross, and the student, who was content to steal only a kiss.
The neighbor at the left, a fat man, with a good-natured physiognomy, leaned towards Eusebe and said,—
“How confoundedly stupid! She has succeeded in escaping unperceived,—a miracle!—and now, instead of going to her cell and changing her costume, she remains there like a fool to sing. I would give a trifle if they would come and take her by surprise.”
“You are a wretch!” cried Eusebe. “I am half inclined to strangle you.”
“You are extremely insolent, sir!”
“You are a coward!”
“Chut! chut!” “Silence!” “Out with him!” suggested several voices.
The fat gentleman grasped at the young man’s collar; but Eusebe foiled his design by planting a heavy blow full in his face, which inconvenienced him not a little, but not sufficiently to prevent his calling for assistance. A policeman soon made his appearance, and Eusebe was very unceremoniously shown into the street.
At any other time he would have submitted without a word; but when he thought that the angelic creature with whom he was so charmed had disappeared forever, he thrust the public functionary aside and hurried away like a maniac.
Eusebe returned directly to his lodgings. For a long time he sat in his room, his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in his hands. His heart had taken possession of his head, and he did not try to account for what was passing within him. Although he had no light, he closed his eyes, and the cantatrice appeared before him, encircled by a resplendent halo.
He threw himself on his bed without undressing, but sleep he could not. One by one he took off his garments, throwing some one way and some another. He listened to the clock every time it struck even the fractions of the hour, and every quarter seemed to him a century. He breathed heavily, and a cold perspiration covered his brow, while he rolled about on his couch, grating his teeth, and occasionally muttering,—
“Mon Dieu! will the day never dawn?”
And then he found relief in tears.
The day at last dawned; but Eusebe, pale and his eyes sunken, slept soundly. At a late hour, a noise in the street awoke him. He rose up, and, looking wildly around the room, thought he had been dreaming. But the incidents of the previous evening, and the sleepless hours of the night, were soon clear to his recollection.
“No, it was not a dream,” said he. “I was never at the same time so happy and so miserable: this woman, I see her still. Why does she exert such an influence over me? Last night I tried to banish her from my thoughts; but I was wrong, for I am never so happy as when I am thinking of her. I will see her again this evening, and to-morrow, and—forever.”
The day wore slowly away. The doors of the theatre were scarcely opened, when Eusebe was installed in the first row of the orchestra-chairs, where he awaited the commencement of the play. But the patience of the poor provincial was destined to go unrecompensed. That evening they played “Zampa; or, The Marble Bride;” and it was in vain that he watched for the angelic creature who was the subject of his thoughts. He returned home sadly disappointed, but determined to retrace his steps on the following evening.
The next day he was sure of realizing his hopes. Twenty times he stopped to read the large posters of the theatre. He had bought the programme, and long before the doors of the theatre opened, seated in a neighboring café, he read it for the hundredth time:—
THE BLACK DOMINO.
Comic Opera, In Three Acts.
Scribe, Auber.
Mademoiselle Adéonne will continue her débuts in the rôle of Angèle.
“What a pretty name!” said Eusebe to himself. “Adéonne! How euphonious! how it resembles her! Adéonne! She is the only one on earth who is worthy to bear it.”
At length the hour arrived. He entered the theatre and was soon intoxicated with the pleasure of gazing at her whom he loved. This time he took a lively interest in the piece. He followed, step by step, this singular and improbable story, the product of the imagination of the most skilful dramatist of modern times. From the theatre he returned slowly to his lodgings.
“I am like Horace de Massarena,” said he, as he entered his chamber. “The love of the hero of the piece enabled him to discover his own. I love her, while he is only playing comedy; I love her truly and sincerely, and am happy in the thought that I shall see her often. When I see her I forget all else: it is impossible to describe my feelings. How fortunate that man is who sings with her! If I could only sing! But I cannot, and I am not sure that, near her, I should be able to content myself with being a simple actor. I would not confine myself to the words of the author, to a studied lesson of love: she would not believe me, I am sure. It seems to me that I would find something else to say to her, or I would remain silent. I would throw myself at her feet; I would not take my eyes off of her; I would prove my devotion in a thousand ways!”
For three weeks, Eusebe did not miss a night at the Comic Opera. He was happy, but confided his secret to no one. This love, egotistic and true,—true because it was egotistic, and egotistic because it was true,—would perhaps have been of short duration, but for the intermeddling of this meddling world.
Paul Buck came one morning to see his friend.
“I come,” said he, “to have you go with me to see the house Lansade has just bought at Versailles.”
“What do you want to see it for?” asked Eusebe.
“What do I want to see it for? Why, to see it! Is that not reason enough?”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“Nor I; but that would displease Lansade.”
“Ah!”
“The fact is, we cannot well avoid going.”
“Why?”
“Because he is our friend. He is a bore, I grant you, but he is nevertheless a sterling good fellow: he has done me many a good turn, and you have told me yourself that but for his kind offices you do not know what would have become of you in this great city.”
“True,” replied Eusebe.
“And, consequently, you ought to avail yourself of every opportunity to make yourself agreeable to him.”
“Without doubt. But—I cannot go: an affair of importance renders it necessary for me to be at Paris this evening at seven o’clock.”
“Nothing is easier: we will return by the six o’clock train.”
“Very well: I will go.”
Arm in arm, the two friends directed their steps towards the Western depot.
Eusebe was silent and thoughtful, and so was Paul Buck. Eusebe was thinking of Adéonne, and Paul thought of what his friend could be thinking of.
In the car they met a merchant, named Bonnaud, an intimate friend of Lansade. It was necessary to break the silence and engage in one of those trivial conversations so tedious to persons preoccupied by a single idea. Fortunately, the merchant was loquacious, and the two friends were content to let him do most of the talking.
“When we reflect,” cried Bonnaud, “that formerly it took three hours and a half, and sometimes five, to go to Versailles, and that now thirty-five minutes suffice for the whole trip, it is almost incredible! It took me, in 1829,—the year of the cold winter,—five days and nights to come from Bordeaux, which is to-day a journey of only thirteen hours! It is astounding!”
“Nothing more so,” replied Paul, complacently assenting.
“And to think,” continued Bonnaud, “that there are in the world so many ignorant and insincere people——”
“There are a great many,” interrupted Buck.
“What?”
“Ignorant and insincere people, as you just remarked.”
“True; ignorant and insincere people, who pretend—what do I say? who deny—that this is an age of progress.”
“What! there are individuals so stupid, so benighted, as to maintain such absurdities!” returned the painter, rising angrily: “that is not possible!”
“Yes, my dear sir, there are such people,—more of them than you may imagine: I know many such.”
“Well, my best wishes to them, but their intellects are sadly obscured.”
Eusebe, who was ignorant of what the artists call “faire poser un bourgeois” (to make a fool of one), looked at his friend with astonishment. The merchant, however, continued, with an air of importance:—
“Since devastating wars have ceased to ravage our glorious country, the arts, the other victorious weapon of France, have secured to her conquests of far greater importance, to say nothing of steam, which would have given the world to the great Napoleon; and then the astonishing discoveries of chemistry! But, leaving all that out of the question, what is so grand and surprising as to see the events that agitate the universe heralded from point to point by numerous metal threads bordering the roads and traversing the land? The electric telegraph would suffice to illustrate our age! And then photography!——”
“No more, I beg of you!” interrupted Paul Buck. “I will say nothing of the electric wires, although they disfigure the landscape; but not a word of photography before breakfast, I insist: it would bring bad luck.”
“I respect every thing, even the most absurd superstition. It is my inflexible tolerance for opinions of every description which has rendered me hostile to those who would mar the grandeur of our age and check our progress towards a perfect civilization.”
The painter, who could hardly restrain an inclination to laugh, bit his lips, and turned to look out at the door. Then Bonnaud, who was determined to have an interlocutor at all hazards, addressed himself to Eusebe:—
“Are you not of my opinion, Monsieur Martin?”
The young provincial was absorbed and abstracted, and only caught the last words of the garrulous merchant. Seeing that it was absolutely necessary to make some sort of response, Eusebe repeated, mechanically, some of the phrases which constituted the staple of his father’s philosophical observations:—
“In the first place, before responding, it is necessary to clear up certain points which have been left involved in obscurity. Who can tell where to find the false and where the true, since the greatest minds have differed concerning them? Who can tell where progress commences, and where it ends? Who will venture to affirm that in an extreme degree of civilization the people are more or less happy, when men of profound and enlightened judgment have confessed that the last word of civilization is the first of barbarism?”
Bonnaud was stupefied. He had nothing to say. Like all persons who have no opinions of their own about men and things, and who, from ignorance or lack of judgment, accept those of others, the merchant was not tenacious of the views he had expressed. At length he recovered his balance so far as to murmur,—
“Certainly. Concerning every thing there is a pro and a con.”
Paul, thinking that Eusebe had penetrated his intention to quiz the merchant, continued to gratify his humor:—
“Assuredly: M. Martin is right. He has told the precise truth, and I can prove it. He belongs to a race who have been at the head of civilization, and who have fallen back into their primitive condition. When were they happiest? I cannot tell; nor can you. You must admit that it would be impertinent to the last degree to assert that the residents of Versailles are to-day happier than were those of Salente under the wise and far-sighted administration of Idomeneus.”
“I do not say so,” rejoined Bonnaud. “But their condition must depend, in a great measure, upon the character of their prefects.”
They had now reached the end of their journey, and the young men alighted, laughing immoderately at the simplicity of their companion, who, for his part, looked to the right and the left, as if trying to discover what excited their mirth.
The house that Lansade had purchased for his retirement was one of those ordinary country mansions which are so dear to the petits bourgeois of Paris. Situated on the summit of a small eminence, it could be seen at a considerable distance. This modest elevation had been preferred by the merchant to sites of a more commanding description, and which could have been obtained at a more advantageous price. The fortunate purchaser was persuaded that all persons who journeyed from Paris to Versailles, and from Versailles to Paris, would eagerly inquire,—
“To whom does that pretty piece of property belong? Who resides in that charming cottage on the hill yonder?”
And then some well-informed traveller would respond,—
“It is the chateau of M. Lansade, a very rich merchant, who has retired from business.”
This idea seemed to fascinate Lansade, and he was never weary of trying to improve the aspect of his house.
The “retired merchant” was seated in front of his mansion, watching for the arrival of his guests, in order to enjoy their astonishment at the sight of his splendid establishment. As soon as he caught sight of them, he shouted,—
“Hurry, my young friends; breakfast is waiting. I had ceased to look for you, upon my word. I was about to go to the table. What do you think of my little establishment?”
The painter and Bonnaud went into ecstasies, the first for politeness, and the second in honest admiration. Eusebe was silent. After considerable trifling chat, the party seated themselves at the table.
Those who reside in the suburbs of Paris are wholly ignorant of the charms of a rural repast: they live as they would live in the city. Those who live on the borders of the Seine eat no other fish than those purchased in the market of Paris. Let any one who does not credit this singularity go to Asnières or to Chaton, and he will be convinced.
Lansade pressed his guests to satisfy their appetite, and made earnest inquiries as to the quality of the dishes.
“How do you find that capon?”
“Delicious,” answered Buck, who was obliged to keep up the conversation while Bonnaud ate and Eusebe mused. “Delicious! Your poultry-yard is, then, already populated?”
“Not at all. But I have a friend in the market of the Vallée. When I wish to obtain game or poultry, I can always procure the best. I have only to write three days previous. Will you try the matelotte?”
“Directly. You are in a convenient place for fresh fish.”
“Yes, the river is quite near; but the fishermen prefer to send their fish to Paris: they may get a lower price there, but they are sure of a sale. As to fruits, however, the case is different: none can be procured in the whole commune.”
“That is a trifling misfortune.”
“Monsieur Martin, what is the matter with you? You appear sad!”
“No.”
“You do not eat?”
“Pardon me, my dear Lansade.”
“It is true,” said Bonnaud: “monsieur is quite abstracted.”
“Eusebe,” cried Buck, “these gentlemen speak truly. You have something concealed from us. Are you unhappy? Are you home-sick, my boy? are you anxious to behold your native meadows? Do these maples awaken in you a desire to see once more your tall chestnuts? and the good things spread before us by our friend Lansade, do they remind you of your own rural repasts in the paternal mansion?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you have left, seated on the banks of the Vienna, a young shepherdess, who sadly awaits your return?”
Lansade laughed rather boisterously. He and his mercantile friend had drank very little, but nevertheless more than usual.
“Well,” continued Buck, “let Eusebe swear to us that he is not in love, and I will leave him in peace.”
“I never swear.”
“Then admit that you are in love, my melancholy friend.”
“It is true,” replied Eusebe.
This confession was made with some reluctance, because delicate souls always dislike to allow a third person to intrude between them and the object of their affection. But Eusebe did not know how to lie, and did not wish to learn. As he felt his heart swelling and his eyes moistening, he arose and went out. He seated himself in a chair in the garden; and there Paul soon rejoined him.
“I gave you pain, my gentle savage,” said the painter. “Pardon me, I beg of you. I am sorry, above all, that I was not more guarded before those vulgar fellows. You are angry with me?”
“No: I even intended to tell you every thing,—but at another time. I know not whether it was because of the presence of our friends, or because I was not prepared, but your persistence provoked me.”
“Ah! I am grieved. I do not like to meddle with the palette of a comrade: each to his own color. But, since we have touched upon the subject, tell me all. I can serve you, perhaps. I also have loved.”
“Is that true?” said Eusebe, rising.
“At least ten times; perhaps more.”
Eusebe sank back upon the seat, saying, sadly,—
“It is useless. You will not comprehend me.”
Paul insisted. His friend finished by yielding to his importunities, and related all that had occurred to him, and all he had felt. Buck, notwithstanding his frivolity, became grave and serious as he listened to the details of this affair of the heart.
“Poor fellow!” said he. “It is unlucky that your first love should be inspired by a comédienne, and, above all, by this one.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons. You must see her no more.”
“Impossible!”
“Ay, I know what you would say. If you could not see her any more, you would die.”
“I might not die; but I could not live.”
The voice of Lansade was now heard:—
“Come, messieurs: the coffee is getting cold.”
Paul preceded Eusebe in entering the house, and apprized the two merchants of the revelation his friend had just made.
Then occurred a lamentable, but quite common, manifestation of human perversity. These two business-men, who would not for all the world have done a decidedly bad action,—these two plain store-keepers, who even spoke with respect of the woman at the street-stand who had but one lover,—and the artist who had often observed, in passing unfortunate girls in the street, “These unfortunate creatures are more to be pitied than blamed,”—these three men, in fine, who in the whole course of their lives had not failed in showing respect for the gentler sex, indulged in invectives against Adéonne, with whom neither of them had any personal acquaintance.
“Monsieur Martin,” said Lansade, “I pity you with all my heart. I was quite right when I said that your father should have recommended you to the care and guidance of some rational person. In that case this would not have occurred. Understand me. I am not an enemy of pleasure. I have been young, and I am not too far advanced to remember the amusements of my youthful days. I should not have been displeased to see you enamored of a respectable maiden. But a comédienne!—an actress! Really, I hardly know how to express the grief this affair causes me.”
“You are right, my good Lansade,” said Paul Buck. “It grieves me, also, that Eusebe should have been so unfortunate as to be victimized by one of these filles de marbre, these women without heart, without honor, accustomed to excesses, despising all the pleasures of the world, because they have completely exhausted their sensations.”
Bonnaud was not the man to allow such an opportunity for airing his eloquence to escape him. He immediately began to deliver a tirade against women in general and actresses in particular.
“Ah! Lansade will tell you,” said he, “that I, too, have been an admirer of beauty in my time, and that I was not unsuccessful. I had plenty of money; but never, never was I caught by a comédienne. No, indeed: I was not so stupid.”
“One moment,” said Eusebe: “do you know M’lle Adéonne?”
“Only too well,” replied Paul Buck, earnestly. “Like others of her class, this woman has neither youth, beauty, nor talent. She owes every thing to the claqueurs and her perfumer. This creature, my friend, is deception personified.”
“I do not understand you,” murmured Eusebe.
“I never take an indirect road to reach an object,” said Lansade. “I will make you comprehend. Your Adéonne, like others of her class, seeks in the morning to whom she will sell herself in the evening, and in the evening she is only troubled about the price of her affections. Innocent as you may be, you would not be the son of M. Martin if your heart did not swell with indignation at the idea of one of God’s creatures selling herself for gold. Do you comprehend now?”
Eusebe did not venture to respond. Paul resumed:—
“Adéonne is, they say, charming; but, you see, to woo persons of that description, it is necessary to be without heart and to have plenty of money.”
“You astonish me,” muttered Eusebe. “I do not question what you have told me; and I thank you for having opened my eyes to the truth.”
“Bravo!” cried Lansade. “Here’s to the health of your good father. Let us change the subject.”
Eusebe took advantage of a moment when Lansade was engaged in showing his grounds to Paul and Bonnaud, to escape from the house and fly towards Paris as if pursued by an enemy. Absorbed in thought, he reached the theatre and entered. From the first he fixed his attention upon the beautiful Adéonne, and lost sight of the audience entirely.
If actresses only knew of the raging passions they kindle in the hearts of youthful spectators, they would, perhaps, have a higher estimate of their own attractions.
Eusebe returned to his lodgings filled with strange dreams and fired with strange impulses. He sat, musing, long after the candle had burned down into the socket. Suddenly he arose, as if he had at last reached a decision, and exclaimed,—
“She sells herself! I will be her purchaser.”