his return to paris gave him no pleasure. it was an evening towards the end of august; the boulevards looked empty, and the few people he saw went by with scowling faces; here and there a cauldron of tar was smoking; a good many houses had all their shutters closed. he arrived at his own house: there was dust all over the hangings. dining all by himself, frédéric was overcome by a strange feeling of lonliness; then he thought of mademoiselle roque.