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Updated: June 25, 2025
She had heard of Madame Mansoni, although she had not heard her sing. I put up my glass again and looked at Wetter. He nodded slightly but unmistakably, then flung his head back and laughed again. Now we waited only for Coralie. With her coming we should be complete. The music began. By arrangement or impulse, I knew not which, everybody rose to their feet. Only Elsa and I sat still.
I do not maintain that Victoria's suggestion contributed decisively to the prosecution of my acquaintance with Coralie Mansoni, but it filled a gap in the array of reasons and impulses which were leading me on, and gave to the matter an air of sport and adventure most potent in attraction for such a mood as mine.
The high issue had seemed to lend some dignity even to a boy's raw love-making, a dignity that shone dimly through thick folds of encircling absurdity. I had not been particularly absurd in regard to Coralie Mansoni, but neither had there been in that affair any redeeming worthiness or dignity of conception or of struggle.
"Indeed, my dear Struboff, there's no telling, but I suppose in the arms of somebody else." "Your own, for example?" growled the husband. "Observe the usual reticences," said Wetter, with a laugh. "My dear Baron, Struboff mocks my misery by a pretended jealousy. You can reassure him. Did Madame Mansoni ever favour me?" "I can speak only of what I know," I answered, smiling.
Such is the history of my secret duel with Wetter and of my acquaintance with Coralie Mansoni up to the date of that occurrence. Such also is the story of that apparently very bad shot which my little son found in the wainscoting of the Garden Pavilion. But it was not such a very bad shot; not everybody would have gone so near and yet made sure of not hitting.
He was said to have great attractions for women; but I am not aware that he admitted persons of either sex to his confidence or friendship. He was, I imagine, jealous of even appearing to be under any influence." This impression of me was written just about the time of my acquaintance with Coralie Mansoni and of the events which led to a sudden break in it.
"And Coralie Mansoni has married her impresario." "I know it." "And my hair is gray, and your eyes are open." We both laughed and fell again to smoking in silence. At last I spoke. "Her hair is golden and her eyes are shut," said I. "Why did you try to open them?" "Wasn't it to look on a fine sight?" "But you knew that the sight wasn't there." "She looked?" "For an instant.
I need not record the various stages and the gradual progress of my acquaintance with Coralie Mansoni. It would be for the most part a narrative of foolish actions and a repetition of trivial conversations.
I did not find encouragement in the only answer that I could honestly give to my question. Just at this time I received a letter from Varvilliers containing intelligence which was not only interesting in itself, but seemed to possess a peculiar appositeness. He had heard from Coralie Mansoni, and she announced to him her marriage with a prominent operatic impresario.
When Coralie comes, we shall be complete. The opera ended and the curtain fell. There was a buzz of talk. "Our anthem comes now, Elsa," said I. "Yes," she whispered, crushing the bizarre satin rag of a programme that they had given her. "I have never heard Madame Mansoni," she added. I glanced at her; there was a blush on her cheek.
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