"That is because he is a musician."
Two hours later Rodolphe and his companion halted in front of a house in the Rue St. Denis.
"It is here that I live," said the girl.
"Well, my dear Louise, when and where shall I see you again?"
"At your place at eight o'clock tomorrow evening."
"For sure?"
"Here is 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—