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.