"Well, let me see it."
Adolphe drew his tablets forth and read me these four lines:—
"Pourquoi dans la froide Ibérie,
Louise, ensevelir de si charmants attraits?
Les Russes, en quittant notre belle patrie,
Nous juraient cependant une éternelle paix!"
I stood astounded. This was real poetry—poetry after the style of Demoustier. So a poet stood before me: I felt as though I ought to bow down before him.
"How do you like my quatrain?" asked de Leuven.
"Heavens! it is beautiful."
"Good!"
"And you are going to give it to Louise?"
"Oh no; I dare not do that. I shall write it in her album without saying anything to her, and when she turns over the leaves she will come across my lines."