They were divine hands, and might have been wrought by the purest chisels of Grecian statuary.
Rodolphe felt these admirable hands tremble in his own, and feeling less and less of an art critic, he drew towards him Seraphine, whose face was already tinged with that flush which is the aurora of voluptuousness.
"This creature is a true instrument of pleasure, a real Stradivarius of love, and one on which I would willingly play a tune," thought Rodolphe, as he heard the fair creature's heart beating a hurried charge in a very distinct fashion.
At that moment there was a violent ring at the door of the rooms.
"Lucile, Lucile," cried Seraphine to the waiting maid, "do not let anyone in, say I am not home yet." At the name of Lucile uttered twice, Rodolphe rose.
"I do not wish to incommode you in any way, madame," said he.

"Besides, I must take my leave, it is late and I live a long way off.

Good evening." "What! You are going ?" exclaimed Seraphine, augmenting the fire of her glances.

"Why, why should you go?
I am free, you can stay." "Impossible," replied Rodolphe, "I am expecting one of my relatives who is coming from Terra del Fuego this evening, and he would disinherit me if he did not find me waiting to receive him.

Good evening, madame." And he quitted the room hurriedly.