It was a great delight at first, but soon he no longer concealed the truth, which was, that his master complained very much about these interruptions.

“Pshaw! come along,” she said.

And he slipped out.

She wanted him to dress all in black, and grow a pointed beard, to look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She wanted to see his lodgings; thought them poor. He blushed at them, but she did not notice this, then advised him to buy some curtains like hers, and as he objected to the expense—

“Ah! ah! you care for your money,” she said laughing.

Each time Léon had to tell her everything that he had done since their last meeting. She asked him for some verses—some verses “for herself,” a “love poem” in honour of her. But he never succeeded in getting a rhyme for the second verse; and at last ended by copying a sonnet in a “Keepsake.” This was less from vanity than from the one desire of pleasing her. He did not question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes; he was rather becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words and kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learnt this corruption almost incorporeal in the strength of its profanity and dissimulation?