eyes, nor the noble, witty lines that filled the theatre and
roused the audience to fresh attention, could stir his spirit
that hung entranced on the lips of a tragic heroine.

As he stepped out into the street, the first breath of the cool
night air on his face blew away his intoxication. His senses came
back to him and he could think again; but his thoughts never left
the object of his infatuation, and her image was the only thing
he saw distinctly. He was entranced, possessed; but the feeling
was delicious, and he roamed far and wide in the dark streets,
making long detours by the river-side quays to lengthen out his
reveries, his heart full, overfull of passionate, voluptuous
imaginings. He was content because he was weary; his soul lay
drowned in a delicious languor that no pang of desire troubled;
to look and long was more than sufficient as yet to still the
cravings of his virgin appetites.

He threw himself half dressed on his bed, overjoyed to cherish
the picture of her beauty in his heart. All he wanted was to
lose himself in the enchanted sleep that weighed down his boyish
lids.

On waking, he gazed about him for something--he knew not what.
Was he in love? He could not tell, but there was a void somewhere.
Still, he felt no overmastering impulse, except to read the verses
he had heard the actress declaim. He took down from his shelves
a volume of Corneille and read through Émilie's part. Every line
enchanted him, one as much as another, for did they not all evoke
the same memory for him?