The French bourgeois: wherein he differs from, and as a type of humanity is superior to, the English shopkeeper; the French _jeune fille_—and the French sentiment about her—and wherein this sentiment explains her jealously and tenderly guarded inferiority in attractiveness, intelligence and independence to her English prototype—here are the secrets which _La Déserteuse_ may assist a foreign spectator to penetrate.... We are in the town of Nantes, in the home of Forjot, music publisher, husband, father and confirmed bourgeois. Forjot also gives concerts, but he himself is nothing of a musician and would regard music with contempt, were it not a means of making money. Not so his wife, Gabrielle, young, beautiful and vivacious, who has been assured by the director of the local theatre that she is possessed of a rare voice. Gabrielle sings at little Nantais concerts and is admired and applauded. Gabrielle is told that she would triumph on the operatic stage—and sighs. She loves excitement, she longs for fame, she is full of dreams and ambitions and fancies—but she finds no sympathiser in the music publisher, her husband, who, looking up impatiently from his ledgers, bids her pay more attention to her house, her child and “the rest.” _Gabrielle._ What do you mean by “the rest”? Do you want me to write out the bills, for instance? _Forjot._ Never mind the bills: my shopman does that. But I see no reason why you should not stay in the shop and receive clients, and, when there is a press of work, lend me a helping hand with the correspondence. _Gabrielle._ Don’t expect me to do anything of the sort. It is the old story: the bourgeois husband and the beautiful, dissatisfied, ambitious wife, who rebels at her dull surroundings, who believes herself “wasted,” who is tempted by a sympathetic admirer; and who falls. Rametty, director of the Nantes Theatre, is Gabrielle’s lover. His ardent prayer that she should accompany him on one of his tours and win the fame that inevitably awaits her, rings constantly in her ears. She resists, chiefly for the sake of her daughter, Pascaline. But the temptation to fly becomes irresistible when, on the night of one of Forjot’s concerts, audience, friends, her lover, and even a popular composer from Paris, delight, intoxicate her with their praise. Forjot, however, stands aloof; the eulogies of the popular composer—respectfully known as _Le Maître_—exasperate him. _Le Maître._ Madame Forjot has sung admirably. Let me give my testimony. I do not know anyone, you mark me, I say _anyone_, and I am not excepting the most celebrated vocalists—I do not know _anyone_ capable of singing this air with such mastery. _Forjot._ Oh, you exaggerate, surely, her talent, Master. You are too indulgent. _Le Maître._ I am not indulgent. Madame is an incomparable lyrical tragedian. But, madame, you must not remain _en province_—it would be a crime.