I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and the Puy-de-Dôme. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I would turn to Pettermann and say: “What do you think of this?” But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his face; he would shake his head and reply coldly: “It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn’t come up to the views in Munich.” Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own country. As we passed near Mont-d’Or, I determined to go there to taste the waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know what to do with their time. I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of guests there; many foreigners, especially Englishmen, but many Frenchmen too, notably those _chevaliers d’industrie_, men with refined manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go to Mont-d’Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a result of yielding to the passion for play. I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties. Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pass my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness and amiability which seemed to say: “I am a flirt but I can’t help it; you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never change.” Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest a _demoiselle_; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still unmarried,--it was probable that it was her own choice. She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and attentive to the fair sex; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover, he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.