“Oh, if you know all about Oliva, I have nothing more to tell you.”
“Who is Oliva?”
“You do not know? Then, sir, imagine a young girl very pretty, with blue eyes, and an oval face, a style of beauty something like her majesty, for instance.”
“Well, sir?”
“This young girl led a bad life; it gave me pain to see it; for she was once in the service of an old friend of mine, M. de Taverney—but I weary you.”
“Oh no, pray go on.”
“Well, Oliva led not only a bad life, but an unhappy one, with a fellow she called her lover, who beat and robbed her.”
“Beausire,” said the magistrate.
“Ah! you know him. You are still more a magician than I am. Well, one day when Beausire had beaten the poor girl more than usual, she fled to me for refuge; I pitied her, and gave her shelter in one of my houses.”
“In your house!” cried M. de Crosne in surprise.