“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Oliva, “who are you, then, who know all this?”
“I know, further, that Beausire carried you off again, persuaded you that he loved you, sold your jewels, and reduced you to poverty. Still, you say you love him, and, as love is the root of all happiness, of course you ought to be happy.”
Oliva hung her head, and covered her eyes with her hands, but two large tears might be seen forcing their way through her fingers—liquid pearls, more precious, though not so marketable, as those Beausire had sold.
“And this woman,” at last she said, “whom you describe as so proud and so happy, you have bought to-day for fifty louis.”
“I am aware it is too little, mademoiselle.”
“No, sir; on the contrary, I am surprised that a woman like me should be worth so much.”
“You are worth more than that, as I will show you; but just now I want all your attention.”
“Then I will be silent.”
“No; talk, on the contrary, of anything, it does not matter what, so that we seem occupied.”
“You are very odd.”