“Enfin le jour reluit, Lelio va venir;
Rien ne saurait le retenir, je pense.
Le ciel en ce moment commence à s’éclaircir,
Mon cœur joyeux renaît a l’espérance.”
Régisseur.—“No, no: it is not so.”
Adéonne.—“But——”
Régisseur.—“But there are no buts. You say, ‘Enfin le jour reluit.’ You must not look at the auditorium: your eyes ought to be turned towards the horizon. You continue, ‘Lelio va venir.’ It is requisite that here the most complete satisfaction should sparkle in your look.”
Adéonne.—“It will sparkle at night.”
Régisseur.—“I know all about that. You artistes always say so, and at the representation nothing sparkles. As you proceed, you should look at the skies, instead of your gaiters, as you do.”
Adéonne.—“I cannot recognize the skies of yonder canvas.”
Régisseur.—“That is no reason. But proceed.”
And so on, through a rehearsal full of vexation for the fastidious régisseur and wearisome practice for Adéonne and the other performers.
Eusebe was present every day at these tedious but, to him, instructive rehearsals. His native sagacity, the experience he had already acquired, and his frequent contact with the artistic world, led him at last to one painful truth. Adéonne was not a great artiste: he had made of her a divinity; she was only an ordinary woman, who could not even place herself properly on the stage without special instructions.