Neighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some amusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice taken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians were playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door. The enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile, dainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white, and wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the French type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the complete _faux pas_, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making and philandering. Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these Dresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender. “Is that all he was waiting for, poor boy?” said Gzhatski, with a pitying smile. “Hardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.” The “poor boy,” however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady’s glass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his Gretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the divine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face. With his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the young lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite. “He is not a German for nothing!” laughed Gzhatski. “Let us escape; or else we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.” But Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in excellent French, the famous “Déclaration” of Richepin: “L’amour que je sens, l’amour qui me cuit, Ce n’est pas l’amour chaste et platonique, Sorbet à la neige, avec un biscuit, C’est l’amour de chair, c’est un plat tonique. “C’est l’amour brûlant comme me feu grégeois C’est l’amour féroce et l’amour solide, Surtout ce n’est pas l’amour des bourgeois, Amour de bourgeois, amour d’invalide. “Ce n’est pas non plus l’amour de roman, Faux, prétentieux avec une glose De si, de pourquoi, de mais, de comment, C’est l’amour tout simple, et pas autre chose. “C’est l’amour puissant, c’est l’amour vermeil. Je serai le flot, tu seras la dune, Tu seras la terre, et moi le soleil, Et cela vaut mieux que leur clair de lune.” Gretchen pretended to be frightened, but Irene glanced mutely at Gzhatski, and they both thought “It is true!” The wine, the supper, the music, had affected them; they spoke little, looked at each other mysteriously, and, all unconsciously, sighed as deeply as the young German.