Heinrich was in a rage. As usual he confided his grievances to his old friend and comrade, Weiss.
"That woman, Varsovina! I shall leave her! I shall wash my hands of her! Really, she has become impossible!"
"Why," Weiss wanted to know, "did she refuse the famous Russian engagement? Another injured knee?"
"Varsovina is in love! I teil you she is in love!"
"That," Weiss pronounced judicially, "I refuse absolutely, yes, absolutely, to believe!"
"But I teil you, espèce d'imbecile," Heinrich shouted, for he was really much annoyed by the stupidity of his friend, "I teil you, I who should know, that the woman is in love! Madly, desperately, in love! And with some rich puppy of an Englishman with whom she is living down at Fontainebleau."
"He must indeed be rich," was Weiss' comment.
"Must I repeat to you again that Varsovina is in love? When have rich lovers ever before interfered with her dancing? Consider Nordstrom, consider De Beauvais. She knew how to wind them round her little finger! Whenever there was a ballet to be rehearsed, they were dismissed, immediately, given their congé, until all was over. But this is different, entirely different, for I assure you that Varsovina has jorgotten that she is a dancer. And that," Heinrich continued with profound emotion, "is the end of everything."
"Then what is to become of us?" Weiss wanted to know.
"Who can say? I have heard of a new ballet, Le Papilion, and wish to discuss it with her, but she refuses