The provincial looked around him in gaping wonder. He had never seen so much magnificence concentrated in the same small space. He hardly dared to put his boots upon the flowers in the carpet. With his hat in his hand, he stood as immovable as a statue. At length his eyes, which had wandered over every thing, rested on a pastel, representing Adéonne in a _rôle_ in _Val d’Andore_. The white cap, the Pyrenean costume, in which the painter had clothed the _artiste_, produced a strange effect upon Eusebe. During those sleepless nights when he had shaped his fortune in dreams, his dearest fancy was to behold Adéonne become his intimate companion, seated beside him under the great chestnut-trees of the Capelette, or strolling along the road in the evening, leaning upon his arm. The illusion had sometimes become so powerful that he had seemed to hear the sweet voice of the singer trilling the favorite _chanson_ of the country:-- “Baisse-toi, montagne, Lève-toi, vallée, Que je puisse voir Ma mie Jeannette.” From the song to the national costume there was only the flash of a desire. Without being absolutely the same, the costume in which _Rose de Mai_ was clothed had a strong similitude to that of _ma mie Jeannette_. The provincial forgot Adéonne. Entirely absorbed in the dreams which he had cherished for the last two months, his mind wandered in the sweet fields of revery. It seemed to him that he had always known her whose image filled his heart. A curtain was softly raised, and Adéonne advanced without Eusebe, who was lost in contemplation, noticing her. She scrutinized the stranger for a few seconds, but it seemed as if her survey did not terminate in fixing her idea of his social position. One moment she wondered if the peculiar rapt expression of the young man was not a piece of acting. But the sparkle of his eye, the pallor of his brow, and the quick beating of his heart revealed to the actress, accustomed to witnessing acting and to acting herself, a sentiment profound and sincere. “You wish to see me, monsieur,” said she. “What do you require of me?” Eusebe started as if he had been suddenly roused from slumber, and, in his turn, he looked at Adéonne. The cantatrice wore a dress of black satin. A collar and ruffles of Holland lace were the only addition to this simple costume. Her luxuriant hair fell, carelessly looped, upon her neck like a river of gold. Her eyes were large and dark, and her complexion white even to pallor, and without a rosy tint. Her lips were pale and bloodless. She was no longer the brilliant _artiste_ whom Eusebe had so often seen at the theatre. She was beautiful, but more like a statue than a woman. Eusebe seemed to want words to express the object of his visit. Adéonne was too much of a woman not to comprehend the effect she produced. She felt somewhat flattered, and said, in a softer tone,-- “May I ask, monsieur, the object of your visit?”