"Au revoir, Ballangier! I must dine. But, I repeat, watch over Mignonne more carefully than ever." "Oh! you have no need to urge that on me." I entered a restaurant, dined in hot haste, and went to Madame Dauberny's house. "Madame is not in," said the concierge. "You mean that she is not receiving, for she must be at home; did she not return from the country to-day?" "Yes, monsieur; madame returned to-day. But I assure you that she went out this evening, not very long ago; and I believe I heard someone say that she was going to the Opéra." "To the Opéra?" "Yes, monsieur; Mamzelle Adèle told us that her mistress was going to the Opéra." I was determined to find her. If I allowed that evening to pass without having an explanation with her, she would be quite capable of leaving Paris on the morrow; she would escape me again, and for a long time perhaps. I decided to go to the Opéra. Frédérique was not one of those women who are afraid to go to the theatre alone; more than once I had heard her say: "Why do I need a companion? When the fancy takes me to go to the theatre, I send and hire a box, and I go. In my box, I am alone, I am at home, and no one has the right to come there to annoy me." I arrived at the Opéra; I went into the orchestra and stood at the entrance, from which I examined one side of the auditorium. I did not see Frédérique. I walked to the other side of the orchestra; there was a large audience, and several men were already standing at that entrance. I slipped in behind them and began my inspection. That time my search was short: I saw her, alone, in a _baignoire_, leaning back a little. Was she listening attentively to the performance, or was she absorbed by her thoughts? Before joining her, I gave myself the pleasure of gazing at her for several minutes. Suddenly one of the men in front of me began to speak, so loudly that I did not lose a single word; indeed, I was speedily convinced that he intended that I should hear. "I say, do you see that lady yonder, in one of the _baignoires_--all alone in her box?" "In a pearl-gray dress, with black hair, and long cork-screw curls?" "Exactly. What do you think of her?" "Not bad--a Spanish type of face; but a little pale." "Perhaps that may be grief at losing me." "Oho! is she----?" "Yes, my dear fellow, she's an old flame of mine; she's still a----" I did not allow Saint-Bergame to complete his sentence; if I had not recognized his voice, I should have guessed his identity from his language. I grasped his arm, and said to him in an undertone: "Monsieur, the man who has been a woman's lover and tells of it is a conceited ass; the man who insults her in public is a coward!" Saint-Bergame turned, eyed me from head to foot with an insolent air, and rejoined in a loud voice: "Ah! you constitute yourself that lady's champion, do you? To be sure, it's your turn now."