I thus pondered until daybreak. Pent up with fatigue, I at last closed my eyes and slept on till eight o'clock.

I got up hastily, as Violette must have been an early riser. I told my man that I should probably not be home for breakfast, I hailed a cab, and in five minutes was at the house in Rue Saint Augustin.

I went upstairs four steps at a time, and my heart beat as if this were my first love.

I entered the room noiselessly. Not only was Violette fast asleep, but she had not even moved.

However, the blankets were partly drawn back, and, as her chemise was half opened, one of her breasts was exposed to my view.

She was charming thus, with her head thrown back and nearly hidden by her luxuriant locks; then she looked like a picture by Giorgione.

Her bosom was marvellously plump and as white as snow. Though a brunette, the nipples of her breasts were rose and like strawberries. I leaned over and applied my lips lightly to one of them; it stiffened instantly, whilst a slight shudder ran through her frame. Had I only chosen to pull off the sheets, I am sure she would not have opened her eyes.

But I preferred awaiting the close of her slumbers. I took a seat near the bed and held one of her hands in mine.

By the light of the night lamp I examined that hand; it was small, of a comely shape, rather short like the hands of Spaniards, and the nails were rosy, pointed, but the forefinger bore evidence of needlework. While I was thus employed she suddenly opened her eyes and uttered a joyful exclamation.

“Oh!” she said, “you are here, how happy I am! If I had not seen you on waking up I should have thought it was all a dream. Did you never leave me then?”

“I did,” I replied, “I left you for four or five hours, which seemed like ages, but I returned, hoping to be the first object on which you should set eyes on waking up.”

“And how long have you been here?”