But there Eusebe found the language used to be still more incomprehensible than that of Paul. The conversation consisted of dissertations on the æsthetic in art, intermingled with cant phrases and philosophical reflections. To this resort the provincial accompanied his friend two or three times. He would undoubtedly have finished by understanding the peculiar language of the artistic assemblage, if chance had not given him another occupation and preserved him from this great danger. He escaped Scylla to be sacrificed at Capua. CHAPTER XV. The occupation of Eusebe consisted in going to the theatre every evening, an amusement which he now thought as sublime as he formerly thought it despicable. _Voici pourquoi._ Faithful to his programme, he had visited the “Opéra Comique.” The evening on which accident conducted him to the Rue Favart, the bills announced “The Black Domino.” Our hero was entirely ignorant of the meaning of the word “domino;” but he courageously entered, saying to himself that since he had seen a dozen persons assassinated at the “Gaieté” and at the “Porte Saint-Martin,” and double that number married at the “Gymnase” and at the “Français,” nothing worse could possibly happen to him. Installed in an orchestra-chair, he looked around at the spectators with profound surprise. “What!” said he to himself; “these are the same faces, the same men, the same women, I have seen elsewhere!” And he was right. At Paris there are two thousand persons who go to the theatres every evening for nothing,--artists, literary men, or employés of certain branches of the government, besides a large number of persons who are neither the one nor the other, but who know an _artiste_ of the circus, who has introduced them to an actor of the “Vaudeville,” who knows a musician of the “Variétés,” who is intimate with the secretary of the “Porte Saint-Martin,” who is the friend of M’lle X. of the Grand Opera, who is the mistress of Binet the vaudevillist. Then there are the wives of journalists, the mistresses of journalists, the friends of journalists, the comrades of journalists, the porters of journalists, and the washerwomen of authors. Eusebe was lost in a thousand conjectures. He was asking himself how he should ever succeed in getting accustomed to the habits and tastes of a people whom he saw only at a distance, when his neighbor at the right, a lean, sallow individual, nudged him with his elbow, saying,-- “Ah! there is Mdme. de Cornacé.” “Where?” asked Eusebe. “There, in the private box to the right,--the lady with curls _à l’anglaise_, wearing a low-necked dress.” “I do not know her.” “Indeed!” “Pardon me if I am indiscreet,” said Eusebe; “but----”