We must now return to the interior of the room. Beausire was much surprised to see Oliva lock the door, and still more so not to see his adversary1. He began to feel triumphant2, for if he was hiding from him he must, he thought, be afraid of him. He therefore began to search for him; but Oliva talked so loud and fast that he advanced towards her to try and stop her, but was received with a box on the ear, which he returned in kind. Oliva replied by throwing a china vase at his head, and his answer was a blow with a cane3. She, furious, flew at him and seized him by the throat, and he, trying to free himself, tore her dress.
Then, with a cry, she pushed him from her with such force that he fell in the middle of the room.
He began to get tired of this, so he said, without commencing another attack, “You are a wicked creature; you ruin me.”
“On the contrary, it is you who ruin me.”
“Oh, I ruin her!—she who has nothing!”
“Say that I have nothing now, say that you have eaten, and drank, and played away all that I had.”
“You reproach me with my poverty.”
“Yes, for it comes from your vices4.”
“Do not talk of vices; it only remained for you to take a lover.”
“And what do you call all those wretches5 who sit by you in the tennis-court, where you play?”
“I play to live.”
“And nicely you succeed; we should die of hunger from your industry.”
“And you, with yours, are obliged to cry if you get your dress torn, because you have nothing to buy another with.”
“I do better than you, at all events;” and, putting her hand in her pocket, she drew out some gold and threw it across the room.
When Beausire saw this, he remained stupefied.
“Louis!” cried he at last.
She took out some more, and threw them in his face.
“Oh!” cried he, “Oliva has become rich!”
“This is what my industry brings in,” said she, pushing him with her foot as he kneeled down to pick up the gold.
“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” counted he, joyfully7.
“Miserable wretch6!” said Oliva.
“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.”
“Coward!”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”
“Infamous wretch!”
He got up. “And so, mademoiselle, you have been saving money when you kept me without necessaries. You let me go about in an old hat, darned stockings, and patched clothes, while you had all this money! Where does it come from! From the sale of my things?”
“Scoundrel!” murmured Oliva, looking at him with contempt.
“But I pardon your avarice,” continued he.
“You would have killed me just now,” said Oliva.
“Then I should have been right; now I should be wrong to do it.”
“Why, if you please?”
“Because now you contribute to our ménage.”
“You are a base wretch.’”
“My little Oliva!”
“Give me back my money.”
“Oh, my darling!”
“If you do not, I will pass your own sword through your body!”
“Oliva!”
“Will you give it?”
“Oh, you would not take it away?”
“Ah, coward! you beg, you solicit8 for the fruits of my............