Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of a _petite-maîtresse_. One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was enough. Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent, or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his favorite companion. “Monsieur Dalbreuse,” he said to me on the day after my arrival at Mont-d’Or, “just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece that she would like to see Mont-d’Or, and crac! we had to start. I remember being at Plombières thirty-five years ago, with the famous Lekain. Did you know Lekain?” “No, monsieur.” “Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain’s presence the part of Crispin, in _Les Folies Amoureuses_.” “Ah! you have acted, have you?” “Because I enjoyed it,--with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to play the upper servants.” “And your niece?” “My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a contractor’s country house. We had a pretty little theatre, on my word, and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know Mademoiselle Contat?” “No, monsieur.” “Ah! you haven’t seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and such a face! One day--I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that it was _Tartufe_. No, it wasn’t _Tartufe_.” Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in no wise regretted. She took her uncle’s arm and said: “This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse?” She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me then whether I was mistaken or not.