Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the
feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers
in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite
satisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred the
sureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he had
seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heart
of ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another?
Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier he
might be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moved
desultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The
_envoi_ first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has of
sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his
house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written:
"_Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers?
Where is La Place with its musketeers,
Golden nights and the May-time breeze?
And where are the belles of the balconies?_"
Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris?
Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went the
war with Spain? Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis
courts? With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on.
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