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.