A sudden thought struck Cartouche.
“Why does not your Majesty go to see Fifi act to-night? The theater is in this street—yonder it is, with the row of red lamps. I put those lamps up myself. I am due at the theater now, and if your Majesty has not the price of the tickets with you for yourself and Marshal Berthier and General Duroc”—for Cartouche knew both of these well by sight—“why, I, Cartouche, as stage manager, can pass you in.”
The Emperor threw back his head and laughed, and motioned to Berthier and Duroc standing behind him to come nearer to him.
“Listen,” he said to them—and told them of Cartouche’s invitation, and accepted it with great delight.
Marshal Berthier’s homely face lighted up with a smile at the notion of attending a performance at the Imperial Theater in the street of the Black Cat. General Duroc, silent and stolid, followed the Emperor without a word, exactly as he would have marched into the bottomless pit at the Emperor’s command.
“But not a word to the manager until we leave the house,” said the Emperor.
Cartouche, walking with the Emperor, led the party a short distance up the street to where the gaudy red lamps showed the entrance to the Imperial Theater. Duvernet, the manager, in his shirt-sleeves, was engaged in lighting these lamps. He called out to the approaching Cartouche.
“Look here, Cartouche, this is a pretty business, if you have forgotten my new toga. You were to have a new one ready for me to-night—I can’t feel like a Roman senator, much less look like one in that old rag of a toga I wore last night. It was made out of a white cotton petticoat of Fifi’s, and she had the impertinence to remind me of it before the whole company.”
“Hold your tongue,” whispered Cartouche to the manager, coming up close; and then he added, aloud: “These are some friends of mine, whom I have invited to see the play as my guests.”