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 hour" strike, and as the last stroke
sounded he fancied he saw the Cupid and Psyche surmounting his clock
entwine their alabaster arms about one another. At the same moment two
timid taps were given at the door.

Rodolphe went and opened it. It was Louise.

"You see I have kept my word," said she.

Rodolphe drew the curtain and lit a fresh candle.

During this operation the girl had removed her bonnet and shawl, which
she went and placed on the bed. The dazzling whiteness of the sheets