“I know it,” answered Cartouche, “and Fifi—you need not send for the sergeant, I think.”
Fifi threw herself into his arms. She was bubbling over with joy. Cartouche’s saturnine face was more saturnine than ever. He kissed Fifi solemnly, and broke away from her. It was too much joy for him.
The preparations for their wedding were simple enough, as became an insignificant actress and a poor actor, whose home was to be in two little rooms very high up; for Fifi, having been bred under the tiles, declined to come down lower, in spite of her improved fortunes. They had a great many rehearsals at the theater, too, and Cartouche, as stage manager, had lost none of his strictness, and ordered Fifi about as peremptorily as if he were not to be married to her on Thursday. Fifi obeyed him very sweetly and had a new humility toward him.
All of their fellow actors showed them great good-will—even Julie Campionet, who behaved in the most beautiful manner, considering what provocation Fifi had long given her. Everybody connected with the theater gave them a little present—poor and cheap enough, but rich in kindness. Even the old woman who lighted the theater brought Fifi a couple of pink candles for a wedding present, and Fifi thankfully accepted them.
Two days before the wedding came three splendid presents—a fine shawl from the Empress, a watch from the Emperor and a purse from the Holy Father. Fifi was charmed, and took up so much time at rehearsal in exhibiting these gorgeous gifts that she failed to answer her cue, and subjected herself to a fine, according to the rules of the theater, which Cartouche rigorously exacted.
Fifi worked so hard preparing for her wedding on the Thursday morning, and her return to the stage on the Thursday evening, that the hours flew as if on wings—and the day came almost before she knew it.
The morning was fair and bright as only May mornings can be fair and bright. Fifi and Cartouche, with Duvernet and Julie Campionet, now completely reconciled with Fifi for a short time, walked to the mairie and then to the parish church, and were married hard and fast. From thence they went to a cheap café to breakfast, and Duvernet, in honor of the occasion, had a two-franc bouquet of violets on the table. All of the waiters knew that two of the party were bride and groom, but Cartouche was so solemn and silent, and Duvernet so gay and talkative, that everybody supposed Duvernet the happy man and Cartouche the disappointed suitor.
It was then time for the rehearsal, which lasted nearly all the rest of the day, Cartouche being unusually strict. When the curtain went up in the evening never was there such an audience or so much money in the Imperial Theater. The best seats were put at the unprecedented price of two francs and a half, and Duvernet gnashed his teeth that he had not made them three francs, so great was the crowd. The play was the famous classical one in which Duvernet had worn the toga made of Fifi’s white petticoat. This time he had a beautiful toga, bought at a sale of third and fourth-hand theatrical wardrobes, and it had been washed by Julie Campionet’s own hands.
Everybody in the cast made a success. Even Cartouche as the wounded Roman centurion of the Pretorian Guard, got several recalls, and he was no great things of an actor. Duvernet covered himself with glory, but all paled before Fifi’s triumph. Never was there such a thunder of applause, such a tempest of curtain calls, such a storm of bravos. Fifi palpitated with joy and pride.
When at last the performance was over, and Cartouche and Fifi came out of the theater into the dark street, under the quiet stars, Fifi said, quite seriously: