Most of the girls at our table were either ill-at-ease or excited at the unusual pleasure of being without their mothers, and at first no one talked much. The French country people are almost as frumpy as the English, only in a different way, but many of the guests were very smart, and of course had come from Paris. The Vicomte did say such a lot of agreeable things to me, and the others were so occupied with their one chance of talking to a young man that they did not listen as much as usual. He said he had never spent such an agitated night as the one at Vernon. So I said No, the fleas were horrid. He said he had not meant _them_; he meant that the sight of my beautiful hair hanging down had caused him "_une grande émotion_" and "_rêves délicieux_." There was an oldish girl next to him whom he knew; she has coiffed St. Catherine for several years now, and was put at our table, I believe, to be a kind of chaperon. She happened to be listening just then, as her partner would talk to Victorine's friend--the pretty one with the dirty nails--who was at his other side. She caught the word "fleas," and at once asked what we were talking about. "Un sujet si désagréable," she said. I said it was about our journey on the _Sauterelle_, where, at Vernon, Monsieur de la Trémors had been so badly bitten by the fleas that they had given him silly dreams. He said his dreams were as beautiful as those produced by the Hachis of Monte Cristo (whatever that is), so the old girl exclaimed, "Quel pouvoir pour une puce!" She thought we were mad; and I overheard her presently telling her partner--when she could get him to listen--that no one would believe the _bizarre_ conversations of the _toqués_ English unless they actually heard them! [Sidenote: _The Cotillon_] I would not say I would dance the _cotillon_ with the Vicomte. I told him I had half promised it to the Marquis; and when he seemed offended, I said if he was going to be disagreeable I would certainly dance it with Monsieur de Beaupré (the Marquis's name, which I forgot to tell you before). I remember hearing Octavia say once that it never did to make oneself easy to young men, that the more capricious one was the better; and you know how nice Octavia is, and I meant to be like her. He went on imploring; so I told him that I had come there to enjoy myself, not to amuse him, so I should just dance with whom I pleased, or not at all if I happened not to want to. He said I was "_très cruelle_," and looked perfectly wobbly-eyed at me, but I did not mind a bit.