He went to his room and wrote a poem. He had not been in the mood for writing verse since his arrival in Paris, but now melody flowed from his soul. He could think of nothing, of nobody, but Marguerite. And he lost himself in reverie about her sweetly pouting lips, her well-formed nose, her glistening white teeth, the faint dimples in her cheeks. There was child-like beauty and sweetness in her face and speech, and it was that child-like quality in her that had captivated his imagination and passion. He was too impetuous to lay plans. He could not lay siege to his citadel. He would either win it by storm or go down to defeat in the assault. The next day he was again at the shoe shop without even the subtle subterfuge of the lover. He offered no excuses, invented no pretences to account for his call. He sat down and gazed at her rapturously and called her Marguerite, and repeated the name again and again, lisping it, murmuring it, echoing it as if it were a melodious term. Marguerite at first laughed and told him he was foolish but by and by new tints came into the pink of her cheeks and she smiled confusedly—with the confusion of a child who does not know why it is confused—and there came a shimmering heat in the lustrous pupils of her eyes. Her heart beat tumultuously when he looked at her, and his words seemed so caressing. Sometimes he gazed at her as if he did not see her at all and then he would say, “How beautiful your voice sounds!” and when he caught hold of an edge of her apron he fondled it as if he had passed his hand over her bare skin. One day he took hold of her fingers and kissed the tips of every one of them. She never forgot that day. She thought she ought not to let him kiss her fingers but she liked the sensation and yielded. And when a few days later she found herself in his arms she feigned no resistance. She craved the touch of his lips and of his tender embraces and the endearing names he called her and had no objections to being his Marguerite. III. At last the longing of his youth—the longing which he had dissipated in dreams and song—were gratified. Marguerite was his. In her he saw the fulfillment of the promises of Hedwiga, of Hilda, of Eugenie, of Miriam. His soul was steeped in dreams, in imaginary romances, and he would not part with his dreams even when love had become a reality. He had brought to Marguerite all the pent-up passion that lay slumbering in his soul, all which he would have lavished on Hedwiga, on Hilda, on Eugenie, on Miriam. Realities are dreams to the poet as dreams are realities to him. What was wanting in the guileless country girl his romantic imagination supplied. What he had found especially fascinating about his beloved was her want of sophistication. When he proposed that she come and live with him in his two-room apartment she readily consented despite the protests of her relatives.