Zéphine followed Mme. Dumouchel into the living room, Madame’s galanterie for her husband padding contentedly along beside them. It was a docile little thing, with a cute pug nose and large soulful eyes, and Zéphine could not fail to notice with a pang of envy how similar it was to its counterpart, M. Dumouchel’s galanterie for his wife, which dozed placidly at Monsieur's feet.

He’d signed his note “The Fabulous Frederick.”  He hadn’t called himself that in years.  I smiled and stroked the soft leather of the journal's cover. In it he explained his familiar tricks with complicated diagrams that made things that I’d always just felt were right become suddenly understandable. Freddy really had been fabulous once.  I wondered what happened.  Why had I never bothered to ask?