Fifi reflected a moment.
“If you please, Sire,” she replied after a moment, “to send for Cartouche—he is just outside in the gardens—and order him to marry me a week from next Thursday. For, if he should happen to find out that I have forty francs the week as long as I live, there’s no telling what he will do, unless your Majesty gives him positive orders.”
The Emperor rang, and his aide appearing, he was directed to find the fellow named Cartouche.
“He is very homely and has a stiff leg,” said Fifi, by way of description of her lover.
While Cartouche was being found, the Emperor, after his wont, began to ask Fifi all manner of questions, especially about the Holy Father, and listened attentively to her replies. His only comment was:
“A good old man, a dreamer, who lives in his affections.”
When Cartouche was ushered into the room the Empress spoke to him with the greatest kindness, but the Emperor, frowning, said:
“Mademoiselle Fifi tells me she has a mind to marry you a week from Thursday, and you are hanging back.”
“Sire,” replied Cartouche, respectfully, but without the least fear, “I am too old and ugly for Fifi, and I have a stiff leg. Your Majesty knows what I say is true.”
“No, I do not know it, and Cartouche, obey what I say to you. A week from Thursday, or before, if Mademoiselle Fifi requires, you are to be ready to marry her, and if you balk the least in the world I shall have a sergeant and a file of soldiers to persuade you. Do you understand?”