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.