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Updated: June 16, 2025
A day came when I asked the husband to luncheon with me. I sent Vohrenlorf away; we sat down together, Struboff swelling with pride, seeing himself telling the story in the wings, meditating the appearance and multiplication of paragraphs.
We entered by the gardens, the sentry saluting us and opening the gate. There was the Pavilion rising behind my apartments, a long, high, glass-roofed building. The sight of it recalled my thought from Coralie to the work of the morning. I nodded my head toward the building and said to Vohrenlorf: "There's our rendezvous." He did not answer, but turned to me with his lips quivering.
If it were true now, the ball would pass his ear and bury itself in the wainscoting behind. "One two three!" I fired on the last word; I saw the smoke of Wetter's pistol; he stood motionless. In an instant I felt myself hit. I was amazed. I was hit, shot through the body. I staggered, and should have fallen; Vohrenlorf ran to me, and I sank back in his arms.
I was set thinking, though, the next moment, when Varvilliers stepped forward holding a pair of single-barrelled pistols, Wetter opened his lips for the first time: "Why not revolvers?" "If we allow a second shot, Vohrenlorf and I will reload. Pardon, sire, have you any other weapon about you?" I answered "No," and Wetter made the same reply to a like question.
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