"A prisoner on parole, perhaps; but provided, pretty captive, you don't desert me, you may wander where you will."
"Pshaw! that is nonsense," she said sharply.
"Nonsense!" he repeated, testily; "it is no such thing, madame; you have the handsomest equipages in France. Pray, when did I refuse you carriages, or horses, or free egress from this place? par bleu! or lock the gates, madame? Treated as you are, how can you call yourself a prisoner?"
"What advantage in carriages, and horses, and open gates, when we are surrounded by a desert?"
"A desert? what do you mean?"
"There is not a soul to speak to."
"Not a soul—why, you are jesting; pray, is the Marquise de Pompignaud nobody? is the Conte de la Perriere nobody?"
"Worse than nobody, monsieur: I should prefer a desert to a wilderness haunted by such creatures."
"Sacre! what does the child want?"