I suddenly thought of an excuse to see Madame F. once more. If she would go to the theatre I would stay also, if she would allow me the honour of escorting her. If she would not I would leave at once. I hurried round to her house. She was out but I left a message with her maid and then went off to pass a day of torturing uncertainty. Hour after hour went by and no answer came, time after time I returned to find the house shut up and to get no answer to my ring. Could it be that she had told her people not to admit me? What would become of me! Where should I go! What do! There seemed no refuge for me but the Rhone! Finally in one last despairing attempt I heard ladies’ voices above me on the stairs and saw her coming down, a note in her hand. “Oh, M. Berlioz, I am so sorry I have only just got your message and here is my answer. Unfortunately I shall be away from home to-morrow; a thousand pardons for the inconvenience I have caused you.” She was putting the letter in her pocket when I cried: “Oh, please let me have it!” “It is hardly worth while----” “I beg of you, since it was meant for me.” She gave it me and for the first time I saw her writing. “Then I shall see you no more?” “Not if you leave to-night. May your journey be pleasant.” Pressing my hand, she and her two friends passed on, leaving me--can it be believed?--almost happy. I had seen, had spoken to her again, I had a letter from her in which she sent me her _kindest regards_. With my unhoped-for treasure I went back to the hotel to dine with Mademoiselle Patti. As I entered her _salon_ the charming diva clapped her hands joyously and danced up to me, holding up her lovely forehead for my accustomed kiss. During dinner she spoilt me with her dainty coaxing attentions. “There is something wrong with you,” she said, “what are you thinking of? I can’t have you miserable.” They came with me to the station, she, with a friend and Strakosch, and they were allowed to go on to the platform. Adelina, dear child, clung to me until the signal was given, then the winsome creature flung both arms round my neck and kissed me, crying gaily: “Good-bye, good-bye just for a week. We shall be in Paris on Tuesday and you must come and see us on Thursday.” Why could I not claim such affection from Madame F. and mere politeness from Mademoiselle Patti? Adelina was like a brilliant, diamond-eyed humming-bird fluttering round me; I was enchanted but not touched. Though I liked her greatly, I did not _love_ her. My soul was given to that old, sad, unsought after woman, hers it has always been and will be to my dying day. Balzac and even Shakespeare--master painters of passions--knew nothing of love like this. Tom Moore alone has imagined and voiced it in-- “Believe me if all those endearing young charms.” How often, through that long night journey, did I repeat: