"Why, yes, sometimes," he answered, laughing. "To whom are you writing verses?" "To Louise." "What! Louise Collard?" "Yes." "Well, I never!" The notion of composing poetry to Louise Collard, charming though she was, had never come into my head. Louise seemed to me still the same pretty child in short frocks with lace-trimmed drawers--nothing more. "Ah! so you are making verses to Louise, are you: what for?" I went on. "You know she is going to be married." "Louise? No, I did not know that. To whom?" "To a Russian. Therefore the marriage must be prevented." "Prevented?" "Yes; such a delightful girl must not be allowed to leave France." "True, true; I shall be very sorry if she leaves France. I am very fond of her; aren't you?" "I? I have only known her three days." "It would be a good thing to hinder her from leaving France; but how shall we do it?" "I have written my verses; you write some too." "I!" "Yes, you. You have been brought up with her, and it will please her." "But I do not know how to write poetry. I have never done anything but crambo with the Abbé Grégoire and he always told me I did badly." "Oh, nonsense! when you are in love it comes of itself." "But I am in love and it hasn't come; so let me see your verses." "Oh, it is just a quatrain." "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." "Bravo!" "Now what shall you do?" "What about?" "About this marriage." "Oh, well, as I am quite unable to make a quatrain as good as yours, I shall say to her, 'Are you really going to marry a Russian, my poor Louise? I tell you, you are making a great mistake.'" "I do not fancy that will have so much effect as my quatrain," said Adolphe. "Neither do I; but what else can I do? One can only use one's own weapons. Now, if the Russian would meet me in a pistol Dud, I am quite sure he would never marry Louise!" "You are a sportsman, then?" "Rather. How could you imagine one would not be, surrounded by such a forest? Oh, stop! there is a water-hen!" I pointed it out to him with my finger, flushing it with my stick as it swam among the reeds of the pond. "Shoo!" "Is that a water-hen?" "Of course it is. Where do you come from not to know a water-hen?" "I come from Brussels." "I thought you were a Parisian."