If a woman has been reading this story, she will probably throw it aside at this place, with the contemptuous remark that Eusebe is an absurd rustic, destitute of interest, without heart, and all that, because the poor youth did not break his glass at the breakfast at Viroflay, and exclaim,—
“You are three cowards! You insult a woman, a charming creature, who has done you no wrong, and whom I love. You have lied! You are unworthy, all three of you, to kiss the toe of her boot. You shall give me satisfaction!”
I ask pardon of the lady, but there would be no sense in the remark.
If Eusebe had used, with passionate vehemence, all these and other fine phrases, he would simply have shown himself familiar with the literature of the Boulevard (yellow-covered literature).
The language of truth and nature no longer exists. Society, lamentable to say, has adopted the favorite style of the stage. I know that the theatre professes to copy the world as it is; but it has exaggerated every thing, under the specious pretext that the simple truth will not amuse. Swelling words, violent gestures, absurd mannerisms, empty phrases, and unnatural dialogue are cherished upon the stage, and thence communicated to society. Life has become but a transcript of a drama at the “Porte Saint-Martin” or a poor copy of a comedy at the “Odéon.”
Under the pressure of a great sorrow, the true man is always, no matter what his temperament, gloomy and bowed down. Speak not of griefs that are expressed by gesticulations, or of sorrows which are worked off in loud complaints. They are false and affected.
Our age, which has been called the age of photography, is so oppressed with mimicry that everybody mourns in the same style for the father, mother, or brother whom death has removed. Do not break forth in indignant denial, but strive to recollect. Whoever has seen one funeral has seen all. The sons weep in the same manner, wipe away their tears à la mode, walk with the same step, and lean in the same manner upon the same friend of the family. The husbands have their peculiar mode of grief. The mothers alone weep without busying themselves with what occurs on the way. Some sob a little too violently; but this happens only when the lost child was not the favorite.
I do not wish to be understood as representing that society is so positively bad,—only that it is governed by conventional comedy. Nothing is done without an accompaniment of ready-made phrases. When two men engage in a duel, they salute each other, as it is done at the theatre. If a husband finds himself the victim of a deception, he bears himself in the same style and uses the same language he has seen and heard at the theatre. Do not take your daughters to the theatre. They will never believe themselves truly loved unless they are wooed in the style of the actor Lafontaine.
Eusebe had not learned to love, to suffer, and to avenge himself according to the rules which society has borrowed from the theatre; and this is why he did not break his glass and indulge in stormy exclamations at the breakfast given at Viroflay.
It was broad day. Eusebe had been awake for a long time, impatiently awaiting a convenient hour to visit the operatic artiste. He thought of going to a splendid store he had noticed on the Boulevards, and of purchasing at that establishment an elegant and fashionable suit. But, upon reflection, he concluded to present himself in the habiliments which he already possessed.
“Of what use would that be,” thought the provincial, “since this woman loves nothing, and sells herself to the first comer? The toilet will be unavailing: it is money that is necessary.”
It had been sufficient for these unthinking persons to pronounce the word “money” before the poor rustic, to make him as calculating as a miser.
As soon as he could with any degree of propriety call at the theatre, Eusebe did so, for the purpose of ascertaining the address of Adéonne. The hour of noon had sounded, when the provincial, with a hesitating voice, said to a young and pretty femme de chambre, who opened the door at the singer’s residence,—
“I desire to speak to M’lle Adéonne.”
“If monsieur will wait,” said the girl, showing him into a small parlor, “I will go and ask madame if she can receive monsieur. Will monsieur give me his name?”
“It is useless,” replied the visitor: “your mistress does not know me. Tell her I come to see her concerning some very important business.”
The salon of Adéonne was a very ordinary apartment. Curtains of blue brocatelle and white muslin hung at the windows. The furniture included a piano and a centre-table. In a splendid frame, covered with a bulging glass, were the crowns that an idolizing public had lavished upon the cantatrice.
The provincial looked around him in gaping wonder. He had never seen so much magnificence concentrated in the same small space. He hardly dared to put his boots upon the flowers in the carpet. With his hat in his hand, he stood as immovable as a statue. At length his eyes, which had wandered over every thing, rested on a pastel, representing Adéonne in a rôle in Val d’Andore. The white cap, the Pyrenean costume, in which the painter had clothed the artiste, produced a strange effect upon Eusebe.
During those sleepless nights when he had shaped his fortune in dreams, his dearest fancy was to behold Adéonne become his intimate companion, seated beside him under the great chestnut-trees of the Capelette, or strolling along the road in the evening, leaning upon his arm. The illusion had sometimes become so powerful that he had seemed to hear the sweet voice of the singer trilling the favorite chanson of the country:—
From the song to the national costume there was only the flash of a desire. Without being absolutely the same, the costume in which Rose de Mai was clothed had a strong similitude to that of ma mie Jeannette. The provincial forgot Adéonne. Entirely absorbed in the dreams which he had cherished for the last two months, his mind wandered in the sweet fields of revery. It seemed to him that he had always known her whose image filled his heart.
A curtain was softly raised, and Adéonne advanced without Eusebe, who was lost in contemplation, noticing her. She scrutinized the stranger for a few seconds, but it seemed as if her survey did not terminate in fixing her idea of his social position. One moment she wondered if the peculiar rapt expression of the young man was not a piece of acting. But the sparkle of his eye, the pallor of his brow, and the quick beating of his heart revealed to the actress, accustomed to witnessing acting and to acting herself, a sentiment profound and sincere.
“You wish to see me, monsieur,” said she. “What do you require of me?”
Eusebe started as if he had been suddenly roused from slumber, and, in his turn, he looked at Adéonne.
The cantatrice wore a dress of black satin. A collar and ruffles of Holland lace were the only addition to this simple costume. Her luxuriant hair fell, carelessly looped, upon her neck like a river of gold. Her eyes were large and dark, and her complexion white even to pallor, and without a rosy tint. Her lips were pale and bloodless. She was no longer the brilliant artiste whom Eusebe had so often seen at the theatre. She was beautiful, but more like a statue than a woman. Eusebe seemed to want words to express the object of his visit. Adéonne was too much of a woman not to comprehend the effect she produced. She felt somewhat flattered, and said, in a softer tone,—
“May I ask, monsieur, the object of your visit?”
“Madame,” said Eusebe, stammering and becoming red and pale by turns, “madame, I wish to purchase you.”
The peculiar accent and costume of the young man led Adéonne to suppose Eusebe to be a foreigner. She understood him to propose an engagement in the line of her profession.
“I thank you, monsieur, but an engagement of three years binds me to the theatre in which I am now performing, and I have decided not to sing in the provinces, much less in a foreign country. I am too good a patriot for that. I am, however, not the less grateful for the offers you have come to make. For what city did you wish to engage me?”
“I have evidently not expressed myself clearly, madame, since I see you do not comprehend me. I do not come to engage you. I come to purchase you.”
“For whom?” asked the artiste, with disgust.
“For myself.”
“If this is done for a wager, monsieur, I find it to be in more than questionable taste. If it be a jest, I think it very gross and insulting.”
“It is neither the one nor the other,” said Eusebe, terrified by the indignation of the cantatrice.
“Begone, monsieur!” exclaimed Adéonne, imperiously. “Begone, or I will have you driven from the house. You have come to insult a woman, under her own roof, who has never done you wrong. It is cowardly!”
“Madame,” cried Eusebe, falling upon his knees, “madame, pity me. I am not so censurable as I may seem, I assure you. Insult you! Oh, if you only knew!—I will tell you as soon as these tears cease to stifle me. Insult you! It is impossible. I do not know how I ought to speak. You see I am but a poor rustic,—yes, only a rustic. When you have heard me, you will pardon me,—I know you will. You can drive me away afterwards, if you please. Give me but a minute: I will not abuse the privilege. Listen, and then it will not be necessary to drive me away, for I shall go of my own accord. You can see that I am not wicked. Others have found me good and mild. But I am from the country, and there people do not act as they do in the city. I have come to learn. My father sent me here for that. For only three months have I been in Paris. About one month had elapsed when I first saw you. It was on Wednesday: I did not expect to see you when I went to the theatre. I saw you remove your mask; and if you only knew what I have felt and suffered since then. I cannot tell you. It seemed to me that I had never seen but one woman. I was at once very happy and very miserable. At night I closed my eyes only to behold you in the dark. When day came again, you disappeared, and I slept only to forget that I saw you no more. It was not my fault. I went to the theatre without dreaming of the consequences. How could I? I did wrong to return every evening; but I could not help it. Do not drive me away yet.”
“Continue,” murmured Adéonne.
“You may imagine that I was happy,—very happy. When I had looked at you all the evening, I returned home, only to indulge in dreams the most charming you can conceive. You were born, like me, at Capelette. When I saw this portrait in which you appear as a peasant, I believed that my dreams were to be realized. I fancied that I arose early in the morning to behold you sleeping. Then I went to gather flowers to strew the path where you loved to walk. I said to my father, ‘Father, you wish to know where the true is to be found. The true is happiness.’ My father called you his daughter, and thanked you for having brought joy to his household. In the evening we went to the banks of the river. You sang; and I was happy. All this seemed like reality, and I felt myself living with you and for you. I thought I passed entire days by your side. One day, we were seated on the rock of La Jouve, whence a young maiden threw herself into the river because the one she loved had ceased to love her in return. I had a gun with me, and was about to fire at a bird, when you said, ‘Do not kill it,’ and laid your hand gently upon my shoulder. I spared the bird, and kissed the spot where your hand had touched me. You see, I recall all this, yet know that it was only a dream.
“One day, I was in the country with three friends. They succeeded in wringing my secret from me. Then they censured and mocked me. They said—they are cowards! Do not force me to repeat what they said. If you will not pardon me, I will kill them.”
“Tell me all. My pardon is granted on that condition.”
“Well, they told me—ah! it is too bad! I repeat it only to be assured of pardon—for it burns my lips—they told me that you were a worthless woman, without heart, without soul, a creature cursed of God, selling yourself to all who would buy. After having suffered for three days and three nights, I have taken my money and have come to make the purchase. Pardon me now; for I have told you all.”
“You wish to buy me,” said Adéonne, whose countenance had reflected no emotion whatever during this strange recital: “are you, then, so rich?”
“I have here all that I possess,—forty-eight thousand francs.”
“And you think that for this sum I will give myself to you for eternity?” said the cantatrice, smiling.
“No; but for a moment I have had the foolish hope that for this money, and through pity, you would permit me to look at you, to touch your hand, to hear your voice, and then, at sunset, I would depart so happy as to bless your memory forever.”
“What? Only for a day?”
“Three hours,—two,—one.”
“On your word?”
“I have never lied.”
“Be seated,” said Adéonne, coldly. Then the cantatrice summoned her femme de chambre, to whom she said,—
“Jenny, I am not at home to anybody.”
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!”
Eusebe had ample time to meditate upon the aphorism so boldly announced by Adéonne. For a whole year they lived and loved together.
The young provincial had forgotten the great world, which, on its part, troubled itself but little about him.
The comédienne loved with all the fire of a passionate nature. But she experienced another sentiment in harmony with love. The docile character of Eusebe, and his complete ignorance of life, rendered Adéonne the arbiter of his destiny, and she, whose past career had been worse than a blank, was proud to have an acknowledged protégé.
She did not, however, abuse the ascendency she had obtained. More than once, upon her knees before Eusebe, she had said,—
“Oh, how good you are not to wish to be the master!”
When women who live outside of social laws reach the age of twenty, they regard humanity with a shrug of the shoulder; they despise men, because their weaknesses are well known to them. These women often shed bitter tears, not because they feel their degradation or their servitude, but because they have not masters more deserving of respect.
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.”
Theatrical performers, and operatic artistes above all, dine at a comparatively early hour. At five o’clock, Adéonne made Eusebe kneel down before her, while she arranged his hair with the care of a mother who dresses the hair of her son.
“These locks are soft and silky, Eusebe,” said she: “do you know that they are finer than my own?”
“That only proves that they will not last.”
“They harmonize well with the hue of your complexion, which people call olive,—I know not why.”
“Because olives are green.”
“You are foolish. I do not want them to mock him whom I love. My dear, we are going into society. I hope you will be careful how you talk, or they may take you for a character in a forgotten vaudeville. Now let me tie your cravat. There! you are charming. Let us go.”
The loving couple left the house arm in arm. For about an hour the cantatrice promenaded with Eusebe on the Boulevards, where pedestrians frequently turned to scrutinize this handsome but somewhat curiously assorted pair.
“All the ladies are looking at you,” said Adéonne. “I was sure they would think you handsome.”
“I also was sure of it,” responded Eusebe, with simplicity, “since you loved me.”
The cantatrice looked at her lover with profound tenderness.
“If you were ugly, I would love you all the same; for no one but you can say such agreeable things.”
“What have I said?”
“You have given expression to the most delightful flattery.”
“I was not conscious of it.”
“Fortunately, it was only a compliment.”
“And the difference?”
“The difference? There are two kinds of compliments,—those which are sought for, and those that are offered gratuitously; those which spring from the heart, and those which come merely from the lips. The one class are used but once for the being beloved; the others are employed at all times and by everybody,—they are current coin, of which men have a full supply.”
“I comprehend. The poorest may seem to be the richest.”
“Hold,” said Adéonne, on reaching the Rue Favart. “Do you see that little window, the third of the first story, above the entresol? That is the window of my loge.”
“I know it.”
“Behold, my dear Eusebe, the palace of your beloved,” said Adéonne, opening the door of her loge. Her smile was checked, and her countenance wore a troubled expression, as she added, “This is the laboratory in which we artistes prepare our beauty, our hearts, our bodies, to please the public, who think, after all, that we have neither beauty nor heart. It is a sad thought! I had resolved never to reveal to you the mysteries of our profession, but they said that you were not handsome. Come, let me embrace you: I have not loved you here yet.”
Eusebe looked at Adéonne with surprise. He comprehended neither the incoherence of her words nor the cause of her agitation. At length he said,—
“Something strange affects you,—something that I do not comprehend.”
“Leave this place, then. I did wrong to bring you here. It was vanity, I fear, that prompted me. I scent misfortune in the very air. We were so happy at home. Go, then, Eusebe, go, if you love me.”
“I will do whatever you desire.”
“I knew you would. I love you so dearly!—if you only knew how dearly! Jenny will make tea for you. You will read until my return. I will be home early.”
A boldly trilled roulade was heard just as Eusebe kissed the hand of Adéonne and bade her adieu. The cantatrice suddenly detained him, and said,—
“Since you are there, Eusebe must remain. I have need of you, dearest. My heart sings false.”
The “Opéra Comique” and the “Gymnase Dramatique” possess foyers of which the prudery has become proverbial. The life of the vocalist is one of protracted labor, rewarded, however, in a very liberal style. The comparative prudence of lyric artistes can be easily explained. They have little leisure, and a great deal of money to spend. This is why cantatrices more frequently contract honorable alliances with men of position than other women of the theatrical world. A faulty construction adds to the dulness of the evenings spent at the “Opéra Comique.” The foyer des artistes is small, gloomy, and inconvenient. The visitors are often forced to talk to themselves,—which is a wearisome occupation. Still, notwithstanding the seeming dulness of this narrow place, it is very rare that the evening passes without some incident of an interesting character occurring there, owing to the peculiarities of the company assembled.
In this atmosphere, so novel to him, Eusebe learned more in one month than he could have learned elsewhere in ten years.
Astonishment, doubt, and disenchantment succeeded each other with desolating rapidity. The first of Eusebe’s sentiments which yielded to a forced dissection was his love for Adéonne. In proportion as the affection of the cantatrice was increased by the success of her lover, whose manly beauty was only equalled by the freshness of his simplicity, that of the young man diminished before stern realities, the existence of which he had never before suspected.
Adéonne prepared her face for the stage by the use of rouge, powder, &c. Eusebe did not comprehend that the glare of the footlights rendered this necessary.
The cantatrice covered her hands, arms, and shoulders with powder. Eusebe said that she deceived the public; and when she put carmine on her nails and vermilion on her lips, he shrugged his shoulders.
“I like you better without all this plaster,” remarked the provincial.
“My dear Eusebe,” responded the singer, “I also would prefer to dispense with it; but it is necessary——”
“I assure you that without this paint you are a hundred times handsomer.”
“That I do not deny; but we cannot do without it.”
“Why?”
“Because——”
“You can give me no good reason. If you love me, go on the stage, one evening, with your pretty face just as nature made it. You will see the result.”
“You do not understand the necessities of the stage.”
“That is to say that you refuse to grant the first favor I have ever asked of you.”
“Absolutely. Embrace me, and be silent.”
“Thank you: I do not wish to daub my lips.”
Adéonne went upon the stage with a heavy heart, murmuring,—
“His love is vanishing.”
Eusebe, on his part, was very angry, and insisted that Adéonne had refused to make a very small sacrifice to please him.
When lovers begin to count the sacrifices refused, and when friends take account of money loaned each other, love and friendship fly to regions where hearts are made of more generous stuff.
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:—
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.
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.”
Daniel Clamens was a Jew, with a weakness for literature. He was an intelligent fellow, who knew how to manage his affairs with tact, so that, though he possessed neither fortune nor talent, he generally commanded the means of subsistence.
Clamens had three brothers,—one a composer, another a sculptor, and a third a painter: he himself was a dramatist. Of the four, Daniel had the least talent. He had never achieved any remarkable success. Still, he was very well known,—owing, in a great measure, to the reputation of his brothers. Eusebe had made the acquaintance of Clamens at the theatre, and was quite intimate with him. Daniel was anxious to get Adéonne to personate a character in one of his productions, and had cultivated her provincial lover with that object in view. He had often invited Eusebe to dine with him, but the invitation had never been accepted. When the dramatist saw the lover of Adéonne actually enter, he uttered an exclamation of joy.
“And do I behold you at last? You do not know how anxious I have been to see you. Now that you have come, there shall be no peace until you promise to come again.”
“I promise,” answered Eusebe. “I will come often. I have need of some diversion.”
“You say that, but you will not do it. For the rest, I understand that you keep your nest. You ought to be very happy.”
“I was.”
“Bah! that has not ended?”
“Not quite.”
“Has there been a quarrel?” inquired Daniel, quite anxiously.
“Oh, not at all. Quite the reverse. But it seems that we grow weary of happiness, as of every thing else, and I have need of some diversion.”
“Ah! you frightened and amazed me at the same time. Adéonne is so charming.”
“Very charming, indeed,—so charming that for her I have neglected to follow the counsels of my father,—had even forgotten the object of my life.”
“Fortunately, you are young. What career do you design to pursue?”
“I know not. I wished to study life before deciding; but I have now been two years at Paris, and I am no more advanced than when I left my native province. My ignorance and my nothingness are humiliating. I am ashamed of being of no importance in society, because I feel that I can be of none.”
“Life, my dear sir, is not a difficult thing to learn. The trick is to know its secrets. When one has penetrated them, one has learned every thing.”
“Alas!” said Eusebe, “if I have not been sufficiently skilful to learn life, how could I penetrate its secrets?”
“With the gimlet of friendship.”
“A painter, with whom I formerly associated, told me that friendship no longer existed.”
“My brother the painter is also of that opinion. I have always thought that skepticism is developed by the mixing of colors. Distrust, my dear friend, people who deny the sentiments: such persons look upon the world through the impure medium of their own natures.”
“You do not like your brother, then?”
“I adore him,” responded the dramatist; “but I do not share his principles. To prove to you that friendship does exist, I offer you mine. You wish to know the world,—to study life. Come, and I will give you the clew. I will be your guide,—your adviser. We will devote ourselves to social anatomy, and dissect humanity. I will show you the manner of holding the scalpel.”
“Let us begin,” said Eusebe, eagerly.
“One moment,” said his friend. “Before we commence, it is requisite that I should give you a piece of advice. If you wish to see all, hear all, and study all, it will be necessary, before setting out, to pad your elbows, bridle your tongue, and put cotton in your left ear, so that what enters at the right cannot get out again. And now,” continued Clamens, with a majestic gesture, “follow me, as is said in ‘William Tell.’”
“Where are you going?” asked Eusebe.
“My friend,” responded the cicerone, “the best way to arrive anywhere is not to know where you are going.”
“Hold!” said Clamens. “Do you see this expanse of asphaltum, which extends from where we stand to the Chaussée d’Antin?”
“Yes,” replied Eusebe: “it is the Boulevard des Italiens.”
“Just so. Well, all humanity is represented in this narrow space, which is hardly more extensive than your father’s garden. Take a seat, and observe, and in one hour you will know Paris as well as if you had made it; and Paris is the universe. The other cities of the world, such as Bordeaux, Lyons, London, Berlin, Rome, and St. Petersburg, are rivers for which Paris is the sea. Every variety of the human species flows hither, to roll and writhe, like furious waves, in that sublime tempest which we call life. You wish to investigate this billowy mass. You will find nothing there but froth and foam, or you will drown yourself for want of that life-preserver which is called experience.”
“Better to drown oneself at once than to die of weariness on a rock whence nothing but a void is visible; but, indeed, it seems to me we are employing very large words to speak of very small things.”
“Ah,” rejoined Clamens, “there is nothing insignificant in this world. A drop of water may save a man; three may kill him; a hundred will fill a gutter; a thousand will form a rivulet. Multiply ten times these numbers by themselves, and you will have a torrent which may inundate France. Men are like drops of water. Look at them separately, and you see nothing terrible; but when, by a mysterious free-masonry, they assemble and arrange themselves according to their vices, their merits, their passions, or their aspirations, they can convulse society to its very centre.”
“What is one to do in the midst of such a tumult?” inquired Eusebe.
“Laugh,” responded the poet; “laugh, so that you may not weep; turn to account the vices of one class and the virtues of another, and close your eyes to what the morrow may bring forth.”
“Admitting the justness of this theory,” said Eusebe, “it seems to me very difficult to gain a sufficient knowledge of men to enable one to profit by their merits or weaknesses.”
“One knows everybody else better than one knows one’s self. Do you see that gentleman who is walking before us? He is dressed like a prince, dines at the best tables, and denies himself nothing. Four years ago, he arrived at Paris in sabots. Now he is in debt for his boots,—which explains the whole mystery. That fellow would refuse the pension of a Councillor of State: he gains more by borrowing.”
“I understand, then, that he has a confirmed vice. But what advantage can you draw from his peculiar defect?”
“I borrow money of him.”
Eusebe was inclined to think that Clamens was quizzing him, as Paul Buck had quizzed Bonnaud on the railroad; but the poet did not give him time to determine whether this suspicion was justifiable.
“I borrow money of him,” continued Clamens, “and he loans it because he appreciates better than anybody else the necessity of having it. Adroit himself in chasing up twenty-franc pieces, he thinks he has in me a promising pupil. Then his loans to me serve as an excuse to his conscience. If he strips others, he considers that I strip him, and, therefore, concludes that, instead of practising the trade of a sharper, he is only making an application of the lex talionis. The man is not exactly a dangerous character; but he has ten thousand confrères, who prey upon forty thousand fools, and their mode of life operates to the detriment of a hundred thousand poor devils, who perish from hunger or find their way to the galleys. I suppose that the term ‘usurer’ represents to your mind a miserly old man in a brown overcoat and a black silk cap?”
“There is in my native province,” replied Eusebe, “an old man named Gardet, who is said to be very grinding on the poor who borrow money from him; and it is a fact that this creature is attired nearly as you say, with the exception of the black silk cap. In a number of books that I have read during the past two years, the usurer is always described as dressed in that style.”
“It is an error. Now-a-days, the evil-doer is young. That is one of the most curious characteristics of our age. The young men gamble at the Bourse, while the old devote their attention to trade. The young men keep the women; the old conceal themselves in their closets. It is a sad thing to contemplate; but such is nevertheless the case. Revenons à nos moutons. Those two young dandies before us, who balance their canes with such an air, count hardly fifty years between them; yet they are the most unmerciful Jews in Paris.”
“But,” interrupted Eusebe, “I thought you were a Jew.”
“I am an Israelite,” responded Clamens, rather hastily,—“which is not at all the same thing. Such as you see them, that fashionable youth and his dazzling friend have ruined many people. At this moment, they are not merely promenading, as you might perhaps suppose: they are seeking custom. Have you need of money?”
“My friend,” said Eusebe, “you know that I am quite a barbarian, and ignorant of many features of Parisian life. Do me the favor, then,—if I do not try your patience,—to define more exactly the profession of these men.”
“That is easy enough. These fellows have comprehended the fact that the want of money is the complaint of almost everybody, and they have undertaken to supply the needful by founding a loan-and-trust company,—which would be quite philanthropic if the premium were not cent. per cent. For example: they loan on security five hundred francs for six months; at the expiration of that time they receive one thousand for their five hundred.”
“Why a thousand?”
“For the interest of the money advanced for six months.”
“If they make that much, they ought to lend the money for a year: they would then have no need to give any at all.”
“An original idea! I must communicate it to them.”
“You know these persons, then?”
“They are my friends.”
“You astonish me!”
“Let us understand each other. I am not procureur-impérial. Their conduct does not concern me. Let them continue to dupe fools: that is an affair between their consciences and human stupidity. For myself, I have always found them very agreeable: they have often proved serviceable in lending me money.”
“At cent. per cent.?”
“At nothing per cent.”
“Then they are not such usurers as you wish to represent.”
“They go further in that direction than I care to say; but not with me. Why? The day is approaching when their fortunes will be made. They will abandon their business, keep their carriages, maintain mistresses, marry heiresses, and endeavor to make a figure in society. But there is one thing they cannot purchase,—social esteem. They count upon me to help them in that particular and set them in a favorable light before the public.”
“Sad! sad!” murmured Eusebe.
“No matter: such is the world.”
“Well, then I would rather not make its acquaintance,” rejoined Eusebe.
“You are wrong. You ought to learn many curious things which it is important that you should know. The first thing to do is to learn the vices of the times, so as to be able to avoid them.”
“I would prefer knowing what they are to scrutinizing them too closely,” responded the provincial. “A thousand thanks to you, my dear Clamens, for wishing to be my guide. But I feel that I am too feeble to seek an object by paths so perilous. You know the mud of all the ruts, the briers of all the bushes: you will reach your object, no doubt. But what could I do, simple and artless as I am, pursuing such dangerous ways? Let each one take his own road. You may advance, confident of the future; I will return to the joys I already know.”
“What do you call your joys?”
“The woman I love, and the poets of whom I spoke to you last evening.”
“Alas! my friend,” said Clamens, “such joys will not last. Woman is a bell that will not always ring. As to the poets, their charms will not prove so enduring as those of your mistress,—since we have but three. The most bitter sadness characterizes these three great geniuses. The first died out of heart: he will dishearten you. The second lived in exile, where every thing was mournful. The third, disgusted with the ingratitude of his contemporaries, imposed silence upon the harmonious orchestra of his soul, to sit down, in despair, by the wayside, and play the clarionet.”