The blue domino took possession of Oliva’s arm, left at liberty by Beausire.
“Now!” said she, “I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find something pretty to say to me, or——”
“I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle Nicole,” said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman, who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering herself with marvelous quickness, said:
“Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole? If so, you are wrong, for that is not my name.”
“At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you forgotten the time when you bore that name? I do not believe it, my dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!”
“Why do you say ‘Poor Oliva’? do you not think me happy?”
“It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire.”
Oliva sighed and said, “Indeed I am not.”
“You love him, however.”
“A little.”