“I did not say that, your Majesty. I said she was not my sweetheart; but I wish I were good enough for her. However, Fifi knows nothing about that. All she knows is, that Cartouche belongs to her and is ready to thrash any rogue, be he gentleman or common man, who dares to speak lightly to her, or of her, for, although the goat ruined my leg, my arms are all right, and I know how to use them.”
“Fifi will be a great fool if she does not marry you,” said the Emperor.
“Your Majesty means, she would be a great fool if she thought of marrying me—me—me! Her father was a Chiaramonti—that much I found out—and my father was a shoemaker.”
At the mention of the name Chiaramonti the Emperor let go of Cartouche’s ear, and cried:
“A Chiaramonti! And from what part of Italy, pray?”
“From a place called Cesena, at the foot of the Apennines. That is, the family are from there; so I discovered in Mantua.”
“Do you know her father’s Christian name?”
“Yes, your Majesty—Gregory Barnabas Chiaramonti. I have seen Fifi’s baptismal certificate in the church at Mantua.”
The Emperor folded his arms and looked at Cartouche.
“My man,” he said, “I shall keep an eye on Mademoiselle Fifi of the Imperial Theater—likewise on yourself; and you may hear from me some day.”