“He must have lost at cards,” murmured Oliva.
“I am cleaned out, mort de diable!” cried Beausire. “But you, sir, will do me the favor to leave this room.”
“But, M. Beausire——”
“Diable! if you do not go immediately it will be the worse for you.”
“You did not tell me, mademoiselle, that he was troubled with these fits. Good heavens! what ferocity!”
Beausire, exasperated, drew his sword, and roared, “If you do not move, I will pin you to the sofa!”
“Really, it is impossible to be more disagreeable,” said the visitor, also drawing a small sword, which they had not before seen.
Oliva uttered piercing shrieks.
“Oh, mademoiselle, pray be quiet,” said he, “or two things will happen: first, you will stun M. Beausire, and he will get killed; secondly, the watch will come up and carry you straight off to St. Lazare.”
Oliva ceased her cries.