“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.”