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.”