“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,—