Each time Léon had to tell her everything that he had done since their last meeting. She asked him for some verses⁠—some verses “for herself,” a “love poem” in honour of her. But he never succeeded in getting a rhyme for the second verse; and at last ended by copying a sonnet in a keepsake. This was less from vanity than from the one desire of pleasing her. He did not question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes; he was rather becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words and kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learnt this corruption almost incorporeal in the strength of its profanity and dissimulation?