“And what do you call all those wretches who sit by you in the tennis-court, where you play?”
“I play to live.”
“And nicely you succeed; we should die of hunger from your industry.”
“And you, with yours, are obliged to cry if you get your dress torn, because you have nothing to buy another with.”
“I do better than you, at all events;” and, putting her hand in her pocket, she drew out some gold and threw it across the room.
When Beausire saw this, he remained stupefied.
“Louis!” cried he at last.
She took out some more, and threw them in his face.
“Oh!” cried he, “Oliva has become rich!”
“This is what my industry brings in,” said she, pushing him with her foot as he kneeled down to pick up the gold.