The two men sat down at an outer table. Wetter was silent now, and Struboff (I remembered suddenly that I had seen Coralie described as Madame Mansoni-Struboff) was talking. I could almost see the words treacling from his thick lips. What in Heaven's name made him Wetter's companion? What in Heaven's name made me such a fool as to ask the question? Men like Struboff can have but one merit, and, to be fair, but one serious crime. It is the same; they are the husbands of their wives.
I could contain myself no longer. I rose and walked forward. I laid my hand on Wetter's shoulder, saying:
"My dear friend, have you forgotten me—Baron de Neberhausen?"
"My dear friend, have you forgotten me?"
He looked up with a start, but when he saw me his eyes softened. He clasped my hand.
"Neberhausen?" he said.
"Yes; we met in Forstadt."
"To be sure," he laughed. "May I present my friend to you? M. le Baron de Neberhausen, M. Struboff. You will know Struboff's name. He gives us the best operas in the world, and the best singing."