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.”