my pledge," replied Louise, holding up her rosy cheek to
Rodolphe's, who eagerly tasted this ripe fruit of youth and health.

Rodolphe went home perfectly intoxicated.

"Ah!" said he, striding up and down his room, "it can't go off like
that, I must write some verses."

The next morning his porter found in his room some thirty sheets of
paper, at the top of which stretched in solitary majesty of line--

"Ah; love, oh! love, fair prince of youth."

That morning, contrary to his habits, Rodolphe had risen very early, and
although he had slept very little, he got up at once.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "today is the great day. But then twelve hours to
wait. How shall I fill up these twelve eternities?"

And as his glance fell on his desk he seemed to see his pen wriggle as
though intending to say to him "Work."

"Ah! yes, work indeed! A fig for prose. I won't stop here, it reeks of
ink."

He went off and settled himself in a cafe where he was sure not to meet
any friends.

"They would see that I am in love," he thought, "and shape my ideal for
me in advance."

After a very brief repast he was off to the railway station, and got
into a train. Half an hour later he was in the woods of Ville d'Avray.

Rodolphe strolled about all day, let loose amongst rejuvenated nature,
and only returned to Paris at nightfall.

After having put the temple which was to receive his idol in nature,
Rodolphe arrayed himself for the occasion, greatly regretting not being
able to dress in white.

From seven to eight o'clock he was a prey to the sharp fever of
expectation. A slow torture, that recalled to him the old days and the
old loves which had sweetened them. Then, according to habit, he already
began to dream of an exalted passion, a love affair in ten volumes, a
genuine lyric with moonlight, setting suns, meetings beneath the
willows, jealousies, sighs and all the rest. He was like this every time
chance brought a woman to his door, and not one had left him without
bearing away any aureola about her head and a necklace of tears about
her neck.

"They would prefer new boots or a bonnet," his friend remarked to him.

But Rodolphe persisted, and up to this time the numerous blunders he had
made had not sufficed to cure him. He was always awaiting a woman who
would consent to pose as an idol, an angel in a velvet gown, to whom he
could at his leisure address sonnets written on willow leaves.

At length Rodolphe heard the "holy