One of the bleachers, indeed, was an old servant of the vicomte's, and it
was a source of pleasure to him to point out any thing to the ladies that
he thought might prove interesting. This was the man who so diligently
read the Moniteur, giving a religious credence to all it contained. He
fancied no hand so worthy to hold fabrics of such exquisite fineness as
that of Mademoiselle Adrienne, and it was through his assiduity that I
had the honor of being first placed within the gentle pressure of her
beautiful little fingers. This occurred about a month before our departure
for Paris.

Adrienne de la Rocheaimard was then just twenty. Her beauty was of a
character that is not common in France; but which, when it does exist, is
nowhere surpassed. She was slight and delicate in person, of fair hair
and complexion, and with the meekest and most dove-like blue eyes I
ever saw in a female face. Her smile, too, was of so winning and gentle
a nature, as to announce a disposition pregnant with all the affections.
Still it was well understood that Adrienne was not likely to marry, her
birth raising her above all intentions of connecting her ancient name with
mere gold, while her poverty placed an almost insuperable barrier
between her and most of the impoverished young men of rank whom
she occasionally saw. Even the power of the dauphine was not sufficient
to provide Adrienne de la Rocheaimard with a suitable husband. But of
this the charming girl never thought; she lived more for her grandmother
than for herself, and so long as that venerated relative, almost the only
one that remained to her on earth, did not suffer or repine, she herself
could be comparatively happy.

"Dans le bon vieux temps," said the vicomtesse, examining me through
her spectacles, and addressing Georges, who stood, hat in hand, to
hearken to her wisdom; "dans le bon vieux temps, mon ami, the ladies