As I have said above, Adolphe had written the wonderful quatrain in Louise's album that morning. When it was finished he left the young lady's room as fast as possible. Towards four o'clock, Adolphe, who had not been able to contain the news, drew his father aside and repeated his quatrain to him. M. de Ribbing listened gravely until the last syllable of the fourth line, and then he said-- "Say it over again, please." Adolphe repeated it obediently:-- "Pourquoi dans la froide Ibérie, Louise, ensevelir de si charmants attraits? Les Russes, en quittant notre belle patrie, Nous juraient cependant une éternelle paix!" "There is but one slip," then said M. de Ribbing. "What?" asked Adolphe. "Oh, nothing much ... you have mistaken the South for the North--Spain for Russia." "Oh!" cried Adolphe, aghast, "upon my word, so I have! ... I have put Ibérie for _Sibérie_." "I understand," said the count, "it makes a better rhyme, but is less accurate." And, shrugging his shoulders, he went off humming a little air and chewing his toothpick. Adolphe stood dumbfounded. He had signed his unlucky quatrain with his full name. If the album were opened and the quatrain were read he would be disgraced! This sword of Damocles, hung over the unlucky poet's head, had distracted him all the evening. It was to get hold of Louise's album that he had made the obstinate efforts to enter her room I have detailed. But, as we have seen, his attempts had been fruitless. When night came, Adolphe took a desperate resolve: he would go into Louise's room when she was asleep, seize her album and destroy the tell-tale page.