“And here we're in our flights, sure enough!” broke in the father, as he left them with a humorousous pretence at terror.
“Now you must tell me about the women of France,” said Olivia. “I have a friend who was there once, and tells me, like you, he was indifferent; but I am doubting that he must have seen some there that were worth his fancy.”
“Is it there sits the wind?” thought Montaiglon. “Our serene angel is not immune against the customary passions.” An unreasonable envy of the diplomatist who had been indifferent to the ladies of France took possession of him; still, he might have gratified her curiosity about his fair compatriots had not Doom returned, and then Olivia's interest in the subject oddly ceased.
CHAPTER XVII — A SENTIMENTAL SECRET
“Good night,” said Olivia, at last, and straightway Count Victor felt the glory of the evening eclipse. He opened the door to let her pass through.
“I go back to my cell quiet enough,” she said, in low tones, and with a smiling frown upon her countenance.
“Happy prisoner!” said he, “to be condemned to no worse than your own company.”
“Ah! it is often a very dull and pitiful company that, Count Victor,” said Olivia, with a sigh.
It was not long till he, too, sought his couch, and the Baron of Doom was left alone.