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Updated: May 9, 2025
He looked hard in my eyes, laughed a little, drew out a small revolver, and handed it to me. "Struboff was never in great danger," he said. "I was never much afraid for Struboff," said I. "Thanks for the revolver. You're not quibbling with me?" "I don't understand." "There's no river in this town; no institution called the Morgue?" "Not a trace of such things. Do you know why not?"
She smiled and nodded her head. "Perfectly," she said; "but it is a surprise to see him here, a very pleasant surprise." She gave me her hand, which I kissed with a fine flourish of gallantry. "This gentleman knows the King very well," said Struboff, nodding at her with a solemn significance. "There's money in that!" he seemed to say.
I doubted both the use and the possibility of enlightening her as to his. Kisses were not in the bargain, she would say. After all, the desire for affection was something of an incongruity in Struboff, an alien weed trespassing on the ground meant for music and for money. I could hardly blame her for refusing to foster the intruder.
"Yes," she said, not looking at me now, but straight in front of her, as though he stood there in his easy heart-stealing grace. And for an instant longer the flush flew his flag on her cheek. But Struboff had been so mad as to fall in love with Coralie, and to desire her love out of no compassion for her but sheerly for itself. Was I not spared this pang?
I dropped the letter with a laugh, wondering whether the charming lady played the game as he did and a stake as light. Or did she suffer? Well, anybody can suffer. The talent is almost universal. There was, it seemed, reason to suppose that Struboff suffered. I acquiesced, but with a sense of discontent. Pain should not be vulgarized. Varvilliers' immunity gave him a new distinction in my eyes.
If I make one, by Heaven the world is rich in them! Take Struboff for another. But your Majesty is wrong. I'm a farce." "Yes, you're a bit of a farce," said I. He laid his hand on my arm and looked full and long in my face. "So you've made your study of us?" he asked. "Oh, I know why you came to Paris! Coralie, Struboff, myself you have us all now?"
The curtain rose and Coralie was revealed in her rare beauty and her matchless calm. A moment later the great full feelingless voice filled the theatre; she had had no doubt that she could fill the theatre. I saw Struboff leaning back in his chair, his shoulders eloquent of despair; I saw Wetter with straining eyes and curling lips, Varvilliers smiling in mischievous remembrance of our rehearsal.
"Were you once in love with my wife?" he asked bluntly. His deference wore away under the corrosion of Steinberg and distress. "Let us choose our words, my dear M. Struboff. Once I professed attachment to Mlle. Mansoni." "She loved you?" "It is discourteous not to accept any impression that a lady wishes to convey to you," I answered, smiling.
"You sing it to perfection," said I. "There's nothing wrong, nothing at all. Wetter here is mad." "Wetter is certainly mad," echoed Varvilliers, rising from the sofa. "Wetter is damned mad," said Wetter. "Wetter is right ah, so right," came in a despairing grumble from poor Struboff, who still played away. "To supper, to supper!" cried Wetter. "You're right, all of you. And I'm right. And I'm mad.
Coralie's voice echoed through the house as we entered. For a moment we paused in the hall to listen. Then Wetter dashed up the stairs, crying, "Good God! Wooden, wooden, wooden!" We followed him at a run; he flung the door open and rushed in. Coralie broke off her singing and came to greet me with a little cry of pleased surprise. Struboff sat at the piano, looking rather bewildered.
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