at poor Struboff whose stomach is so gross, whose
feelings so fine, who may not give his wife a piece of bread, and would
ask no greater joy than to kiss her feet. And laugh at Varvilliers too,
who, although he sits where he has a good view of us, never turns his
eyes toward the lady by my side, but is most courteously unobservant of
her alone among all the throng. Did she look at him? Yes, for he will
not look toward her. Why, we are all here, all except Hammerfeldt, who
looks down from heaven, and Coralie who is coming presently to sing us
the wedding-song. Even Victoria's Baron is here, and Victoria's sobs of
terror are in my ears again. Bederhof and his fellows are behind me. The
real and the unreal, the dummies and the men, they are all here, each in
his place in the tableau. 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. 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. 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. By my side Elsa was breathing quick and
fast. I turned to her; her eyes were sparkling in triumph and
excitement. It was a grand moment. She felt my glance; her cheek
reddened, her eyes dropped, her lip quivered; the swiftest covert glance
flew toward where Varvilliers was. I turned away with a sort of sickness
on me.

Coralie's voice rose and fell, chanting out her words. The deadness of
her singing seemed subtle mockery, as though she would not degrade true
passion to the service of this sham, as though the words were enough for
s