Half an hour later he was in the woods of Ville d'Avray.
Rodolphe strolled about all day, let loose amongst rejuvenated nature, and only returned to Paris at nightfall.
After having put the temple which was to receive his idol in nature, Rodolphe arrayed himself for the occasion, greatly regretting not being able to dress in white.
From seven to eight o'clock he was a prey to the sharp fever of expectation.

A slow torture, that recalled to him the old days and the old loves which had sweetened them.

Then, according to habit, he already began to dream of an exalted passion, a love affair in ten volumes, a genuine lyric with moonlight, setting suns, meetings beneath the willows, jealousies, sighs and all the rest.

He was like this every time chance brought a woman to his door, and not one had left him without bearing away any aureola about her head and a necklace of tears about her neck.
"They would prefer new boots or a bonnet," his friend remarked to him.
But Rodolphe persisted, and up to this time the numerous blunders he had made had not sufficed to cure him.

He was always awaiting a woman who would consent to pose as an idol, an angel in a velvet gown, to whom he could at his leisure address sonnets written on willow leaves.
At length Rodolphe heard the "holy hour" strike, and as the last stroke sounded he fancied he saw the Cupid and Psyche surmounting his clock entwine their alabaster arms about one another.