Astonishment, doubt, and disenchantment succeeded each other with desolating rapidity. The first of Eusebe’s sentiments which yielded to a forced dissection was his love for Adéonne. In proportion as the affection of the cantatrice was increased by the success of her lover, whose manly beauty was only equalled by the freshness of his simplicity, that of the young man diminished before stern realities, the existence of which he had never before suspected. Adéonne prepared her face for the stage by the use of rouge, powder, &c. Eusebe did not comprehend that the glare of the footlights rendered this necessary. The cantatrice covered her hands, arms, and shoulders with powder. Eusebe said that she deceived the public; and when she put carmine on her nails and vermilion on her lips, he shrugged his shoulders. “I like you better without all this plaster,” remarked the provincial. “My dear Eusebe,” responded the singer, “I also would prefer to dispense with it; but it is necessary----” “I assure you that without this paint you are a hundred times handsomer.” “That I do not deny; but we cannot do without it.” “Why?” “Because----” “You can give me no good reason. If you love me, go on the stage, one evening, with your pretty face just as nature made it. You will see the result.” “You do not understand the necessities of the stage.” “That is to say that you refuse to grant the first favor I have ever asked of you.” “Absolutely. Embrace me, and be silent.” “Thank you: I do not wish to daub my lips.” Adéonne went upon the stage with a heavy heart, murmuring,-- “His love is vanishing.” Eusebe, on his part, was very angry, and insisted that Adéonne had refused to make a very small sacrifice to please him. When lovers begin to count the sacrifices refused, and when friends take account of money loaned each other, love and friendship fly to regions where hearts are made of more generous stuff. CHAPTER XXIX. As Eusebe had seen Adéonne from the auditorium, he had thought that the world did not contain an _artiste_ more marvellously gifted as a vocalist and comédienne. The hearty applause of the public had confirmed him in this opinion. But his attendance at the rehearsals resulted in an entire change of the estimate he had formed. He had heard Adéonne say, “I am learning my part;” “I am studying my principal cavatina.” In his simplicity, the provincial thought that was sufficient. The first time, therefore, he attended a rehearsal, he was disenchanted. The musician who played the accompaniment for Adéonne upon the piano labored furiously, and occasionally burst forth in angry exclamations, as follows:-- “Bah! You have no ear. You have no idea of that piece.” “Monsieur,” said Eusebe, “I do not exactly catch the sense of your words, but it seems to me that you are a little severe with madame.”