Toto, evidently thinking that he was meant by the black cabin-boy of whom the song treats, made his stage bow, and began his ballet dancing. And as it went on, Cartouche, in spite of himself, began to laugh. That was Fifi’s triumph—and springing up, she, too, began to dance as well as sing.
She was only a half-starved little actress on twenty-five francs the week. She had no friend in the world but Cartouche, who was as poor as she was, but her heart was light, and her fresh young voice caroled merrily in the cold, bare little room. Cartouche sat, looking at her, and trying to frown; but it was in vain. He knew nothing of that newly-formed resolve in Fifi’s mind, to have a great many flirtations and then to marry him; and then, a vast, a stupendous sacrifice came into his mind by which he could still get Fifi a cloak.
He had ten francs of his own, and there was the tortoise-shell snuff-box the Emperor had given him. Cartouche himself would have starved and frozen rather than take it to the pawnshop—but Fifi’s cold and hunger was something else. There was no struggle in making the resolve, sacrifice for Fifi was no sacrifice to Cartouche, but there was a moment of sharp regret—a feeling that the only treasure among his poor possessions was about to be torn from him. Presently he said gently:
“Fifi, I have two bundles of fagots in my room and a sausage, and I will get a bottle of wine, and after the performance to-night, we will have a little supper here. And I will forgive you for buying Toto.”
“That will be best of all,” cried Fifi, remembering that in the end she meant to marry Cartouche.
Cartouche went out, leaving Fifi alone, for half an hour of rapture with Toto, before it was time to go to the theater. He climbed up to his garret under the roof, and taking his cherished snuff-box from his breast where he always carried it, looked at it as a mother looks her last on her dead child; and then, going quickly downstairs again into the street, he made for a pawnshop close by, with which he was well acquainted.
Just as he turned the corner of the street of the Black Cat, he almost ran into Duvernet’s arms.
“Hey, Cartouche, you are the very man I want to see,” cried the manager, buttonholing him. And then, noting that several persons on the street stopped and looked at him, Duvernet swelled out his chest and assumed an attitude in which he very much admired himself in his favorite part of the Roman senator.
Duvernet continued in a very impressive manner: “I contemplate both raising your salary, Cartouche, and also making you a little gift. You have worked hard for me; you got the Emperor to the theater, and business has been remarkably good ever since, and you have kept Julie Campionet from marrying me—so far, that is—and I feel the obligation, I assure you. So your salary after this will be twenty-five francs the week, and here are three ten-franc pieces which I beg you will accept.”
With the air of a Roman emperor bestowing a province upon a faithful proconsul, Duvernet thrust the thirty francs into Cartouche’s hand. Cartouche, thoroughly dazed, mumbled something meant for thanks as he accepted the three ten-franc pieces. Duvernet, suddenly dropping his majestic manner, said, in Cartouche’s ear: