Theatrical performers, and operatic artistes above all, dine at a comparatively early hour. At five o’clock, AdÉonne made Eusebe kneel down before her, while she arranged his hair with the care of a mother who dresses the hair of her son.

“These locks are soft and silky, Eusebe,” said she: “do you know that they are finer than my own?”

“That only proves that they will not last.”

“They harmonize well with the hue of your complexion, which people call olive,—I know not why.”

“Because olives are green.”

“You are foolish. I do not want them to mock him whom I love. My dear, we are going into society. I hope you will be careful how you talk, or they may take you for a character in a forgotten vaudeville. Now let me tie your cravat. There! you are charming. Let us go.”

The loving couple left the house arm in arm. For about an hour the cantatrice promenaded with Eusebe on the Boulevards, where pedestrians frequently turned to scrutinize this handsome but somewhat curiously assorted pair.

“All the ladies are looking at you,” said AdÉonne. “I was sure they would think you handsome.”

“I also was sure of it,” responded Eusebe, with simplicity, “since you loved me.”

The cantatrice looked at her lover with profound tenderness.

“If you were ugly, I would love you all the same; for no one but you can say such agreeable things.”

“What have I said?”

“You have given expression to the most delightful flattery.”

“I was not conscious of it.”

“Fortunately, it was only a compliment.”

“And the difference?”

“The difference? There are two kinds of compliments,—those which are sought for, and those that are offered gratuitously; those which spring from the heart, and those which come merely from the lips. The one class are used but once for the being beloved; the others are employed at all times and by everybody,—they are current coin, of which men have a full supply.”

“I comprehend. The poorest may seem to be the richest.”

“Hold,” said AdÉonne, on reaching the Rue Favart. “Do you see that little window, the third of the first story, above the entresol? That is the window of my loge.”

“I know it.”

“Behold, my dear Eusebe, the palace of your beloved,” said AdÉonne, opening the door of her loge. Her smile was checked, and her countenance wore a troubled expression, as she added, “This is the laboratory in which we artistes prepare our beauty, our hearts, our bodies, to please the public, who think, after all, that we have neither beauty nor heart. It is a sad thought! I had resolved never to reveal to you the mysteries of our profession, but they said that you were not handsome. Come, let me embrace you: I have not loved you here yet.”

Eusebe looked at AdÉonne with surprise. He comprehended neither the incoherence of her words nor the cause of her agitation. At length he said,—

“Something strange affects you,—something that I do not comprehend.”

“Leave this place, then. I did wrong to bring you here. It was vanity, I fear, that prompted me. I scent misfortune in the very air. We were so happy at home. Go, then, Eusebe, go, if you love me.”

“I will do whatever you desire.”

“I knew you would. I love you so dearly!—if you only knew how dearly! Jenny will make tea for you. You will read until my return. I will be home early.”

A boldly trilled roulade was heard just as Eusebe kissed the hand of AdÉonne and bade her adieu. The cantatrice suddenly detained him, and said,—

“Since you are there, Eusebe must remain. I have need of you, dearest. My heart sings false.”