At length the hour arrived. He entered the theatre and was soon intoxicated with the pleasure of gazing at her whom he loved. This time he took a lively interest in the piece. He followed, step by step, this singular and improbable story, the product of the imagination of the most skilful dramatist of modern times. From the theatre he returned slowly to his lodgings. “I am like _Horace de Massarena_,” said he, as he entered his chamber. “The love of the hero of the piece enabled him to discover his own. I love her, while he is only playing comedy; I love her truly and sincerely, and am happy in the thought that I shall see her often. When I see her I forget all else: it is impossible to describe my feelings. How fortunate that man is who sings with her! If I could only sing! But I cannot, and I am not sure that, near her, I should be able to content myself with being a simple actor. I would not confine myself to the words of the author, to a studied lesson of love: she would not believe me, I am sure. It seems to me that I would find something else to say to her, or I would remain silent. I would throw myself at her feet; I would not take my eyes off of her; I would prove my devotion in a thousand ways!” For three weeks, Eusebe did not miss a night at the Comic Opera. He was happy, but confided his secret to no one. This love, egotistic and true,--true because it was egotistic, and egotistic because it was true,--would perhaps have been of short duration, but for the intermeddling of this meddling world. CHAPTER XIX. Paul Buck came one morning to see his friend. “I come,” said he, “to have you go with me to see the house Lansade has just bought at Versailles.” “What do you want to see it for?” asked Eusebe. “What do I want to see it for? Why, to see it! Is that not reason enough?” “I don’t want to see it.” “Nor I; but that would displease Lansade.” “Ah!” “The fact is, we cannot well avoid going.” “Why?” “Because he is our friend. He is a bore, I grant you, but he is nevertheless a sterling good fellow: he has done me many a good turn, and you have told me yourself that but for his kind offices you do not know what would have become of you in this great city.” “True,” replied Eusebe. “And, consequently, you ought to avail yourself of every opportunity to make yourself agreeable to him.” “Without doubt. But--I cannot go: an affair of importance renders it necessary for me to be at Paris this evening at seven o’clock.” “Nothing is easier: we will return by the six o’clock train.” “Very well: I will go.” Arm in arm, the two friends directed their steps towards the Western depot. Eusebe was silent and thoughtful, and so was Paul Buck. Eusebe was thinking of Adéonne, and Paul thought of what his friend could be thinking of.