They arrived at Paris. Before Ménard took leave of the count, Frédéric found an opportunity to speak with him in private, and asked him about Dubourg. Ménard did not answer for a moment; he bit his lips, as if he were not quite sure whether he ought to take offence, and said at last, with what he intended for a sly look: "Is it Monsieur le Baron Potoski that you wish to know about?" "Potoski, Dubourg--call him what you please." "Faith! monsieur, I might well call him rather impertinent, considering all the fables he told me. The idea of claiming to be a palatine----" "Come, come, my dear Ménard, forget all that." "And his snuff-box that belonged to the King of Prussia!" "That was a joke!" "But I thought more of that tokay from Tekely's cellar than of anything else." "Remember that I am as much to blame as he, for giving him permission to deceive you." "That closes my mouth, monsieur le comte; besides, if it weren't for his recklessness and his passion for gambling, he would be a man of great merit. He is well informed, he knows his classics." "But what has become of him? where did you leave him?" "I left him acting Hippolyte, and coming to get me to make my _entrée_ on the stage." As Frédéric was entirely in the dark, Ménard described their adventures in the little town, at which anybody but the young count would have laughed heartily. But he heard only this, that Dubourg had been left in a very embarrassing position. He could form no idea when he would see him again, which was a grievous disappointment; for he had proposed to send Dubourg to Sister Anne, to allay the poor girl's apprehensions and explain his failure to return. The Comte de Montreville dismissed Ménard with a reasonable compensation, not for the way he had looked after his son during their journey, but for the time he had lost. Ménard bade adieu to his dear pupil, expressing the hope that he would remember him in case he should ever propose to start around the world again. Several days had passed since Frédéric's return to Paris, and the dumb girl's image was constantly in his thoughts. He imagined her in the woods, awaiting his return, watching the road by which he was to come, and in despair at his desertion of her. Every moment added to his remorse and his longing to see Sister Anne again. But what could he do? He dared not leave his father; he had no money, and, for the first time in his life, the steward, at the count's bidding, had refused to supply him. Monsieur de Montreville feared that his son would use it to resume his travels, and he did not propose to let him go away again. Every day, Frédéric formed the most extravagant projects. He determined to leave Paris on foot, to join his young sweetheart and conceal himself with her in the heart of some forest. But Sister Anne could not leave Marguerite; so that they must remain near the cabin, where his father could easily find him; for Ménard had told him everything.