“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.