First (what I was careful not to tell my friend), that
Madame Blumenthal cared for him a trifle more than he supposed; second,
that he cares for her more than ever; third, that the performance was a
master-stroke, and that her allowing him to force an interview upon her
again is only a question of time."
"And last?" I asked.
"This is another anecdote. The other day, Unter den Linden, I saw on a
bookseller's counter a little pink-covered romance--'Sophronia,' by
Madame Blumenthal. Glancing through it, I observed an extraordinary
abuse of asterisks; every two or three pages the narrative was adorned
with a portentous blank, crossed with a row of stars."
"Well, but poor Clorinda?" I objected, as Niedermeyer paused.
"Sophronia, my dear fellow, is simply Clorinda renamed by the baptism of
fire. The fair author came back, of course, and found Clorinda tumbled
upon the floor, a good deal scorched, but, on the whole, more frightened
than hurt. She picks her up, brushes her off, and sends her to the
printer. Wherever the flames had burnt a hole she swings a
constellation! But if the major is prepared to drop a penitent tear over
the ashes of Clorinda, I shall not whisper to him that the urn is empty."
Even Adelina Patti's singing, for the next half-hour, but half availed to
divert me from my quickened curiosity to behold Madame Blumenthal face to
face.
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