"Mario," the child replied without hesitation.
"Mario? That is an Italian name!"
"I don't know."
"From what country are you?"
"I am French, I think."
"Where were you born?"
"I don't remember."
"I should think not," laughed the marquis; "but ask your mother."
Mario turned to the Moor, and opened his mouth to speak to her. His face wore an expression of satisfaction and joy, because he had been welcomed so like a father by this fine gentleman who held him between his legs, and whose beautiful silk clothes and pretty little beribboned dog he stroked timidly with the tips of his little fingers.
But when he met his mother's eyes, he seemed to read therein a warning of great importance; for he gently extricated himself from Monsieur de Bois-Doré's grasp, and went to the Moor, lowering his eyes and not speaking.