This confession was made with some reluctance, because delicate souls always dislike to allow a third person to intrude between them and the object of their affection. But Eusebe did not know how to lie, and did not wish to learn. As he felt his heart swelling and his eyes moistening, he arose and went out. He seated himself in a chair in the garden; and there Paul soon rejoined him. “I gave you pain, my gentle savage,” said the painter. “Pardon me, I beg of you. I am sorry, above all, that I was not more guarded before those vulgar fellows. You are angry with me?” “No: I even intended to tell you every thing,--but at another time. I know not whether it was because of the presence of our friends, or because I was not prepared, but your persistence provoked me.” “Ah! I am grieved. I do not like to meddle with the palette of a comrade: each to his own color. But, since we have touched upon the subject, tell me all. I can serve you, perhaps. I also have loved.” “Is that true?” said Eusebe, rising. “At least ten times; perhaps more.” Eusebe sank back upon the seat, saying, sadly,-- “It is useless. You will not comprehend me.” Paul insisted. His friend finished by yielding to his importunities, and related all that had occurred to him, and all he had felt. Buck, notwithstanding his frivolity, became grave and serious as he listened to the details of this affair of the heart. “Poor fellow!” said he. “It is unlucky that your first love should be inspired by a comédienne, and, above all, by this one.” “Why?” “For many reasons. You must see her no more.” “Impossible!” “Ay, I know what you would say. If you could not see her any more, you would die.” “I might not die; but I could not live.” The voice of Lansade was now heard:-- “Come, messieurs: the coffee is getting cold.” CHAPTER XXI. Paul preceded Eusebe in entering the house, and apprized the two merchants of the revelation his friend had just made. Then occurred a lamentable, but quite common, manifestation of human perversity. These two business-men, who would not for all the world have done a decidedly bad action,--these two plain store-keepers, who even spoke with respect of the woman at the street-stand who had but one lover,--and the artist who had often observed, in passing unfortunate girls in the street, “These unfortunate creatures are more to be pitied than blamed,”--these three men, in fine, who in the whole course of their lives had not failed in showing respect for the gentler sex, indulged in invectives against Adéonne, with whom neither of them had any personal acquaintance.