I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circumstance in Frédérique's conduct that could possibly encourage my hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour had arrived, when I returned to the house. I found nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frédérique was not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand. "Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a coincidence!" "Where is Madame Dauberny?" "She has gone, monsieur." "Gone! What do you say, idiot?" "I say, monsieur, that we're the masters of the house. Madame Dauberny has gone away with Adèle, and here's a letter she left for monsieur." I took the letter, hastily tore it open, and read what follows: "MY FRIEND: "I am going away from this house, which has lost all its charm for me since Armantine has been my neighbor and has passed all her time with us. I say with us--I imagined that it was still that happy time when there were only we two! That time passed too swiftly. I realize that I am a selfish creature, and that it is natural that you should be happy in having found again a woman whom you once loved dearly, and whose presence has rekindled the fire which was not extinct. So, be happy with her. Remain at my house, my friend; remain there as long as you please, and believe that I go away without murmuring, but not without regret." I had hardly finished reading the letter, when I called my servant. "Pack my valise, Pomponne, and your own things; we are going back to Paris." "Going back to Paris! When, monsieur?" "Instantly! make haste!" "What about dinner, monsieur? We haven't dined, and I know it's all ready; Adèle told me so when she went away." "We will dine in Paris. I do not propose to remain another half-hour in this house. Come! you should have had everything ready before now." Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Paris in the first _coucou_ I could find; for there are still _coucous_ at Fontenay. XLVIII AT THE OPÉRA I reached Paris about seven in the evening. As I entered my house, the first person I saw was Ballangier, in a neat brown frock-coat and a round hat; his attire was noticeable for a sort of coquetry which indicated that the desire to please was still his first thought. He grasped my hand, crying: "Ah! here you are at last! I am so glad to see you! I have so much to tell you about all that has happened in the six weeks since you went away! For it is six weeks since you left Paris." "Is Mignonne in my room now?" "No; but she sometimes passes the whole day there and a large part of the evening. She enjoys being in your room." "Come up with me and tell me all about it." Ballangier accompanied me to my apartment; I got rid of Pomponne by telling him to get his dinner wherever he chose; and when I was alone with my friend, I asked how his love affairs were progressing.