Yet soon enough his own affairs engrossed him wholly, and the silent little drama was dismissed from his mind. He answered M. Voltaire’s letter; he longed to wait on him, but dare not intrude on the great man. M. de Caumont was now in Paris, and Luc went to see him, taking the eulogy written on his son, Hippolyte de Seytres. M. de Caumont was warm and pleasant, but Luc was not inspired to show the tender words he had written on his dead friend. M. de Caumont was not like his son. Luc keenly felt the difference; his native shyness rushed over him and tied his tongue. He spoke neither of his hopes, his letter to M. Amelot, nor of M. de Voltaire’s letter to him. He left M. de Caumont’s hotel with a feeling of slight depression, and was walking absorbed in sad thought down the quiet street when a coach drew up and Carola Koklinska’s voice hailed him. Luc paused and uncovered. The coach was at a standstill beside the posts that divided the footway from the road; the blind had been pulled aside, and the lady was looking from the window. Luc had recognized her voice instantly; he would not so soon have recognized her person. She wore a dark red “capuchin” closed under the chin, and her hair showed in the folds of it, white and stiff with pomade. “You in Paris!” she said swiftly. “Why was I not to know?” she added gravely. His real reasons would have seemed absurd in speech, and he was slow with inventions; he blushed and looked at her seriously. “I am going home,” said Carola. “Will you come with me, Monsieur? I have a garden I should like to show you.” He bowed in acceptance, still silent. Her lackey dismounted from behind and opened the coach door; Luc stepped into the interior, which was lined with white satin and full of a keen perfume. He took the seat opposite the Countess; she occupied the whole of hers with her full skirts, which were of gold brocade of an unusual Eastern pattern, and the long clinging folds of the crimson “capuchin.” Her dark face looked the darker for the powdered hair; the cheeks were still hollow, but all her outline was curved and soft, and her lips were a warm, pale red; her rather sombre eyes were clear and reflective in expression. She wore diamond ear-rings of remarkable size and brilliance, and all her garments and the appointments of her coach showed of noticeable richness. Luc reflected how unaware of her wealth and position he had been when they were climbing the Bohemian rocks together. “I thought you would come to Paris,” she remarked. “Do you wish to enter politics? You should be at Versailles.” “Why, perhaps, Madame,” assented Luc. “But Paris is very interesting to one who knows so little of the cities of the world as myself.” She gave him a full look. “Oh,” she said slowly; then she added, “But you must meet people, know people, court people--and every one worth meeting, knowing, courting is at Versailles. Shall I help you?”