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Updated: June 8, 2025
"A crown of roses! to signalize a double conquest," cried Bixiou, glancing at Coralie. Coralie made a sign to Berenice. That portly handmaid went to Coralie's dressing-room and brought back a box of tumbled artificial flowers. The more incapable members of the party were grotesquely tricked out in these blossoms, and a crown of roses was soon woven.
Looking down after the wont of mankind in moments of sharp pain, he saw the seam of Lucien's boots, a deep yellow thread used by the best bootmakers of that time, in strong contrast with the glistening leather. The color of that seam had tinged his thoughts during a previous conversation with himself, as he sought to explain the presence of a mysterious pair of hessians in Coralie's fender.
Madame had wandered restlessly to the fireplace at the other end of the room. I returned to Coralie's sofa. "You're going too?" she asked. "Certainly," said I. "I must rest. I have to rise early, and it's close on two o'clock." "You don't look sleepy." "I depart from duty, not from inclination." "You'll come to see me to-morrow?" "If I possibly can. Could you doubt it?"
He launched on a catalogue of Coralie's attractions, but seemed to check himself rather suddenly. "I don't suppose she's your sort, though," he remarked. "Why not?" I asked with a smile. "Oh, I don't know. You like clever women who can talk and so on. She'd bore you to death in an hour, Augustin." "Would she?" said I innocently. I was amused at William Adolphus' simple cunning.
Florine was in the plot; she had foreseen the outcome; she had studied Coralie's part, and was ready to take her place. The management, unwilling to give up the piece, was ready to take Florine in Coralie's stead.
A fatal event occurred on the evening before Coralie's debut. D'Arthez's book had appeared; and the editor of Merlin's paper, considering Lucien to be the best qualified man on the staff, gave him the book to review. He owed his unlucky reputation to those articles on Nathan's work.
Unspeakable mortification filled him at the sound of it. Wherever he had been during the last few days, that pang had been constantly present with him. He felt, moreover, a sensation quite as unpleasant when he went back to his desk after an evening spent in the great world, in which he made a tolerable figure, thanks to Coralie's carriage and Coralie's servants.
Looking down after the wont of mankind in moments of sharp pain, he saw the seam of Lucien's boots, a deep yellow thread used by the best bootmakers of that time, in strong contrast with the glistening leather. The color of that seam had tinged his thoughts during a previous conversation with himself, as he sought to explain the presence of a mysterious pair of hessians in Coralie's fender.
All of them felt instinctively that nothing was beyond the reach of this young and handsome poet, with intellect enough and to spare; they themselves had trained him in corruption; and, therefore, they left no stone unturned to ruin him. Some few days before Coralie's first appearance at the Gymnase, Lucien and Hector Merlin went arm-in-arm to the Vaudeville.
The intolerable situation lasted for two whole months; the days being diversified by stamped papers handed over to Desroches, a friend of Bixiou, Blondet, and des Lupeaulx. Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie's condition was hopeless she had only a few days to live.
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