Eveline felt as if she had been given new life. She was no longer married, and yet she was not a widow. She had to shed no tears over happiness that had vanished, no regrets for domestic joys. Her heart was full of newly awakened desires, hopes she hardly dared to confess to herself, dreams that delighted while they embarrassed her—a delicious riddle that she feared to guess. Next day, however, when she heard that Kaulmann had absconded and would never return, she recognized fully that her chains had fallen off.

When the caged bird has escaped into the open air of heaven, does he ever regret his gilded cage and all its luxurious comforts or the tender endearments of his owner? The bird enjoys his freedom, and rejoices he is no longer a slave. It may be that wilder and stronger birds tear him in pieces; that the frost and rain may chill his body, unused to exposure. He cares not. He wings his flight still higher; he seeks for a branch; he cooes to his lady-love; he is happy.

Eveline never for one moment reflected that she was in any way implicated in the fall of Kaulmann and the shame that attended his ruin. She had no idea that her name was bandied about. She who had been as a queen, who had been so admired, had such a succÈs! What was to become of her now? She belongs to no one. No one knows anything of her past; but it is pretty safe to prophesy her future. She will have another protector. Of course; but who will he be? Which of her many admirers? She has a legion of adorers from which to choose.

This was the talk of the clubs and the gossip of society. While Eveline sat in her room, rejoicing at her new life of freedom, an idea suddenly came into her head. She looked for Arpad's visiting-card, ordered her carriage, and drove out to visit the Belenyis. They lived some little way from Paris, in the suburbs, where houses can still be had with rooms on the ground floor. Madame Belenyi liked to live on the ground floor. The house she had lost was of this sort, and it had the advantage that, having her own kitchen, she could cook for her son, and feel sure he was not dining at some tavern in bad company. Unless on special occasions Arpad invariably came home to dine with his mother; he would not have missed doing so for a splendid feast. He thought there was nothing to compare with her dishes of pig's ear and delicately cooked vegetables.

Eveline's coachman found it hard to make out the narrow little street in the neighborhood of Montmartre, where the Belenyis had established themselves. Eveline would not let the carriage go farther than the corner; there she got out, and, accompanied by her footman, walked up the street, looking for the right house. It was an old fashioned cottage, in which Madame Belenyi had hired two rooms divided by a kitchen. A girl who was working in the garden showed Eveline where the young gentleman lived. As Eveline pushed open the kitchen-door very gently she noticed that the door of the inner room opened suddenly and a woman looked out. This was undoubtedly Arpad's mother, who was curious to see who had come to visit her son.Eveline went on her toes to the door of the opposite apartment, and noiselessly turned the handle; she wanted to surprise Arpad.

His room was the picture of comfort and order. It was easy to see how carefully it was kept by his mother. The table, the walls, were crowded with handsome pictures and ornaments, the gift of different persons—cups, wood-carvings, antique weapons, classical paintings; the windows were supplied with plants in bloom; there were bookcases full of books. Everything was well arranged; there was taste and comfort, and Arpad liked to be at home better than anywhere else. The hired piano was from Erard's manufactory, and was now open. Arpad was sitting with his back to it, brush in hand; he was painting. The pianoforte-player was also a painter. Artists, many of them, indulge in these freaks. One of our most distinguished portrait-painters loves to torture his neighbors by scratching like a cat upon the strings of a violin; so also a well-known musician spends his time writing feeble verses; and a third, who is a real poet, produces unsightly excrescences in marble and terra-cotta.

What was Arpad painting?

Eveline stepped softly behind his back, but the rustle of her silk dress betrayed her presence.

Arpad turned scarlet, shoved the picture into a drawer, and, getting up quickly, confronted his visitor, who had only time to see that it was a portrait he was painting.

"Ah, it is you," he stammered, in an embarrassed voice. "I thought it was my mother."

"Aha, you are doing something you should not! Your mother does not allow you to paint; isn't that it? Well, it is a silly thing, I must say, for a pianoforte-player to spend his time painting; and what is the subject?"

"Oh, nothing—a flower!"

("What a lie!" thought Eveline; "it was a portrait.")

"Then if it is a flower, give it to me."

"I should rather not."

"But if it is only a flower?"

"I am not going to give it to you."

"Don't be so cross. Won't you ask me to sit down?"

Arpad was really vexed. Why had she come to disturb him just at this moment? Any other time she would have been welcome. This beginning spoiled the happy hour; for the picture was not Eveline's portrait.

"Sit near me, else I shall think you are afraid of me. I expected that you would have come to see me, to find fault with me for my performance yesterday evening. Tell me frankly—didn't I sing badly?"

"Very badly," returned Arpad, discontentedly. "You are going back instead of forward; and you seem to forget all you learn. I was quite ashamed of you. And your acting! I thought I was looking at an automaton."

"To tell you the truth, I was in a miserable state of mind; I had several domestic troubles. I am separated from Kaulmann."

"That was no reason to sing false; he wasn't worth risking your engagement for, and playing in such a perfunctory manner—singing, too, all out of tune. You never troubled yourself much about him." (Arpad knew nothing of what had happened to Kaulmann; the news had not penetrated to Montmartre.) "And, at all events, you should have had the discretion not to order a shower of bouquets when you were doing so badly; it doesn't look well."Eveline was very much wounded at this unjust accusation. She answered, almost crying:

"I beg to assure you I have never ordered bouquets to be thrown to me."

"Well, it was one of your adorers, that crazy prince. It is all the same thing. To be handsome, to sing badly, and to receive wreaths, those are three sins rolled into one. The world cannot distinguish between them."

"Very well; go on finding fault, go on scolding, my excellent old master. What else have I done that is displeasing to you?"

Arpad began to laugh, and held out his hand to Eveline.

"Forgive me," he said. "My roughness is only the grumble of the preceptor; it is over. Now we shall be young again and chat. Shall I fetch the draught-board? Shall we play for love or for nothing?"

This tone warmed Eveline's heart. She laughed, and slapped Arpad's hand, which he did not like.

"What are you going to do now you have got rid of Kaulmann?" he said. "Will you marry again? Is another man ready for the yoke? Men are as plentiful as blackberries. Or are you going to preserve the autonomy of the actress?"

Eveline cast down her eyes and grew suddenly grave.

"I have no one," she said, sorrowfully.

"Ah, that does not mean that there are not plenty you can have if you like."

"It means the same thing. I shall belong to no one. I shall never take a husband who is above me in station. Do you see, the girl who went barefoot in the coal-mine must stay in her own class. If I could give any one a place in my heart, it would be to one who was as free and independent as I am. He should owe nothing to great people; he should depend absolutely on his own genius; live absolutely by his own work. He should be esteemed not for his money nor his rank, but for his talent; he should glory in being an artist."

This was a frank confession for any one who understood. Arpad understood; he became more discontented.

"H'm! Then I am afraid you are walking in a path that leads you away from such a man as you describe."

"What do you mean?"

Arpad got up from his chair. "Artists have many strange ideas; these are inseparable from the artistic temperament. Do you see that antique goblet there in the centre of the table? It was a present to me from Count Demidoff on the occasion of a concert. It was an heirloom in his family. It is a wonderful relic; a classical work. Princes, generals, rulers have drunk out of it. I have a great respect for it, and I keep my visitors' cards in it. But I never drink out of it; I prefer a common glass, for which I have paid fifteen pence, but out of which no one has drunk but myself."

Eveline flushed deeply at this cruel speech.

Arpad had, however, resolved to make the matter still clearer.

"You say," he went on, "that you would like to find an artist, a genius, a proud, independent man; him you would choose for your husband! And you imagine that a man of this type would submit to sit by your side as you drove in the Champs ÉlysÉes, knowing that the people driving behind in other carriages or walking along the path were saying, 'There is the curled and scented Hyperion, but the steeds that draw him are not paid for by his muse, they are the blood-horses of Prince X——; and his wife is not content with the glory of his name, she wears the diamonds provided by Marquis G——.' Do you think you will easily find such a husband?"

Poor Eveline! She tried to defend herself against this cruel boy.

"But I am ready to throw away all splendor—everything that is not earned by my honest labor. I wish to live by my art, to be what I am—an actress. I would work night and day to perfect myself. I do not want any other distinction but that of an artist."

Arpad then told her what she had never heard until now. Children and fools speak the truth, and in Arpad there was a mixture of both; he was a child in years, and a fool as regarded the claims of art.

"My dear Eveline, you are not an artist; you will never be an actress; you are one of the step-daughters of the muses. There are many such, to whom have been given great capabilities; one only is wanting—courage. You sing wonderfully well, you act with feeling, with humor—at home, before three people; but so soon as the lights of the proscenium are lit your voice grows weak, you sing false, you see and hear nothing, and you act like a wooden doll. This is called stage-fright, and it is never cured; it has ruined more brilliant careers than the critics have. You shake your head and appeal to your former triumphs. Don't deceive yourself; I know the machinery of the stage well, and how artificial thunder and lightning are manufactured. At every performance you gain a triumph; you receive thunders of applause, mountains of flowers. The morning after your performance your breakfast-table is covered with newspapers teeming with laudatory criticisms. This is all gold-dust, and will only last as long as some rich admirer pays the piper. But try the experiment of closing your doors to your wealthy patrons, and step on the boards with no help but your own talents; ask to be applauded for your own sake. Then you will learn the price of the entertainment, and that the critic's praise is only to be bought."

Eveline's head sank. She knew that every word he said was true. Arpad viewed the matter not so much from the artistic side as from his youthful, ardent nature. He was indignant against the fashions of the world; he was indignant that Eveline should have lent herself to these low intrigues, and so taken the place of better artists, better musicians, better actresses; but in his heart he was sorry for her. She had been kind to him; she had never offended him. Why was he so cruel to her? It was due to the petulance of his boy's nature. Why had she disturbed him when he was happy at his painting? Why had she asked him questions? What was it to her whether it were a flower, and, if it were a flower, why should she want it? And when he put out his hand, why should she tap it in that intimate manner? The picture was not painted for her.

"What shall I do? What am I fit for?" asked Eveline, with a downcast air. Her beautiful eyes were full of tears; she was crushed to the earth.

The young man considered a few minutes what he should answer. As she had asked to drink the chalice she should do so to the dregs.

"You have two courses open to you, for I would not advise you to take a third and return to your husband. If I were a woman I would prefer to lie stretched out at the morgue than be the joint possessor of that man's ill-gotten wealth. We therefore have only the two courses to consider. Either you continue on the stage as before, take the bought applause and the flowers paid for by your noble patrons, or return from whence you came, and be content to shove wheelbarrows for the rest of your life."

Eveline rose from her seat, drew her wrap round her shoulders, and, with a low, constrained voice, murmured:

"Thank you." Then she silently left the room.

Tears came into Arpad's eyes. But why had she come here? Why had she disturbed him when he was happy painting? The moment she had closed the door he returned to the table and took from the drawer his flower, to see if it had sustained any injury. It was in one sense a flower—a fair child with blue eyes!

The door opened again; the picture was hastily concealed. No one, however, came in. Arpad's mother spoke through the half-opened door.

"Arpad, my son, who was that beautiful lady who was here just now? A princess, was she not?"

"She was a poor woman who came to beg from me."

"H'm! Surprising! What extraordinary beggars there are in this city—beggars dressed in silk, with a Persian shawl for a wrap. Did you give her anything, Arpad?"

"Mother, I had nothing to give her."

"You have done well, my boy." And she shut the door and went back to her own room to finish stitching at her son's shirt-collar.