“No indiscretion,” replied his neighbor. “All Paris knows her. Her mother was a dealer in butter at the _Halle_. She was very handsome, and when she married M. de Cornacé, who was a ruined nobleman, she brought him a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand francs. To-day they have three millions, thanks to an intimacy that exists between Mdme. de Cornacé and Froment, the banker. You see she is a woman of the times.” “How so?” “How? Why, that is not difficult to comprehend.” “I do not understand you, sir.” “When one does not understand French, one ought not to enter into conversation,” replied the neighbor, angrily, turning his back to Eusebe. Our hero was on the point of assuring his interlocutor that it was not his intention to be inquisitive, when the conductor gave the signal to begin the overture. The son of M. Martin had never heard any music but that of the vaudeville. From the first measures executed by the orchestra, he experienced certain strange sensations, for which, however, he did not pause to account. Enchanted by the melody, he found himself isolated in the middle of the crowd, and a prey to emotions that were unknown to him, and really inexpressible. CHAPTER XVI. There is nothing that penetrates the heart, and prepares it for love, like music. The curtain had risen, and _Horace_ had recounted to _Juliano_ his adventure with the beautiful unknown, without exciting the slightest interest on the part of Eusebe. The heroes of Scribe talked of love, a something unknown to the provincial, who would have been wholly ignorant of the word, had he not met with it in pronouncing his prayers. The entrance of the two masked women made a strange impression on him. His heart beat violently, the blood rushed to his temples, a cold, trembling sensation pervaded his whole frame, and when the woman who personated _Angèle_ removed her black velvet mask, he experienced one of those indescribable sensations of delight which nature accords to those only who have not sinned against her. Trembling, and his eyes intently fixed on the lips of the cantatrice, Eusebe Martin forgot the universe: he felt his blood coursing rapidly through his veins, and his heart expand within his breast. He remained in his seat between the acts. One thought alone occupied him: should he see the beautiful creature again who had produced such a magic effect on him? He closed his eyes, in order the better to see her in imagination. Meanwhile the curtain rose for the second time. During the first three scenes _Angèle_ did not appear. Her absence was the first real disappointment Eusebe had ever experienced. Up to that time his life had been as calm and monotonous as the surface of a lake. All at once his heart leaped with joy: she had just entered. Pale and agitated, he did not breathe freely until the good _Jacinthe_ had promised that she would do all in her power to conceal _Angèle_. “Excellent woman!” cried Eusebe.