“It does not displease me: it makes me sad.”
“Oh, what a child you are! Of whom do you wish them to speak? They presume that you love me, and, therefore, speak of me to you. What is more natural? As to that foolish Fontournay, I forbid your speaking to him at all.”
“But it is not he alone who addresses me in this manner. Everybody does the same, from the régisseur to the machinist. If this goes on, it will be necessary for me to put on an old shawl and bonnet, and pass for the mother of the actress, like Madame Baudry. I will become Madame Adéonne la mère.”
Adéonne was silent. She did not understand the sensitive nature of Eusebe, and could not prolong the discussion. She finally adopted the course usually taken by women when they are embarrassed: she became sad and tender. At length she replied, in a bitter tone,—
“A shawl and a bonnet will not suffice for that: nothing can replace the mother one has lost.”
Eusebe, hearing this cry of the heart, repented of his harshness. Hardly had he entered the apartment of Adéonne, when he threw himself upon his knees before her.
“Forgive me, my darling. I have done wrong, and shown a want of heart, in awakening a sad remembrance.”
“No, no,” said Adéonne, untying the ribands of her bonnet: “I said that as I might have said any thing else. My mother never had any claim upon my remembrance.”
On the following morning, at breakfast, Adéonne saw that Eusebe was sad and gloomy.