“I will see to that,” replied the manager eagerly, “and I will also see to it that Julie Campionet is made to gnaw the file.”
Just then Cartouche coming in, Fifi besought him to let her act for at least two weeks more; and Cartouche, feeling himself that vague, but intense strangeness of all things and people since Fifi got her hundred thousand francs, consented. When it was decided, Toto laid his nose down on his paws and uttered a short whine of relief, which sounded like grace after meat.
So Fifi was to play for two weeks more at the Imperial Theater, the franc seats were to be two francs, and the cheapest seats, fifty centimes. Fifi breathed again. It was a respite.
Meanwhile Fifi had been formally notified that the money was awaiting her at a certain bank, and she was requested to name a day for the payment to her, in the presence of an official of the lottery, a friend of her own, and a representative of the lottery company. Fifi, or rather Cartouche for her, named a day a whole month from the day of the lottery drawing. They were both frightened at the prospect of Fifi’s receiving the money.
She and Cartouche resumed their life exactly as it had been before number 1313 was purchased. Cartouche, going about attending to his business as usual, thought his head would crack. At the end of the month, what was to be done? He was but little more experienced than Fifi when it came to a hundred thousand francs. Fifi must find another and a very different home—but where? She must be married—but when and how and to whom? He knew of no one of whom he could ask advice, except one, and he was not easy to reach—the Emperor. Cartouche was as certain as he was of being alive, that if he could see his Emperor, and could tell the whole story, a way out of all his perplexities could be found. He had a shadowy hope that the Emperor might have discovered something about Fifi, according to that mysterious hint he gave the memorable night when he heard her name, but it did not materialize.
At last Cartouche formed the desperate resolve of trying to see the Emperor and telling all his trouble about Fifi. On certain mornings in the week an inspection of the Imperial Guard was held in the courtyard of the Tuileries; and on one of these mornings—a cold, dull, uncertain morning, matching Cartouche’s feelings—he went and stationed himself as close to the iron railings of the courtyard as the police would let him. He thought to himself: “The Emperor sees everything and everybody. He will see me, and he will know that I have something on my mind, and then he will send for me, and I will make a clean breast of it; and the Emperor will tell me what to do with Fifi and her money.”
The guard was drawn up into a hollow square, their splendid uniforms making a splash of color in the dull gray day, their arms shining, their bronzed countenances and steady eyes fit to face the great god Mars himself. Presently an electric thrill flashed through every soldier and each of the crowd of onlookers, as when a demigod appears among the lesser sons of men—the Emperor appeared, stepping quickly across the courtyard.
He was in simple dress uniform, and had with him only two or three anxious-looking officers; for he was then the eagle-eyed general, who knew if a button was missing or a strap awry, and incidentally read the soul of the man before him. At once, he ordered this man and that to open his knapsack; one piercing glance sufficed to see in it and through it. He had a musket examined here and there, and in a flash he knew if everything was as it should be. The inspection was rapid, but nothing escaped the magic eyes of the Emperor. All was in order, and in consequence, Jove smiled.
Cartouche saw that the Emperor would pass within a few yards of him, and he stood, erect and rigid, at “attention,” waiting for the lightning glance to find him, and, just as he expected, the Emperor’s eye swept over the waiting crowd, rested a moment on him, recognized him instantly, and as Cartouche made a slight gesture of entreaty, nodded to him. Five minutes after, a smart young aide stepped up, and motioning to Cartouche, walked toward the palace; Cartouche followed.
He did not know how he got into a small room on the ground floor, which communicated with the Emperor’s cabinet. He was hot and cold and red and pale, but said to himself: “Never mind, as soon as I see the Emperor I shall feel as cool and easy as possible. For when was it that a private soldier was not at his ease with the Emperor? It is the bigwigs who think they know something, whom the Emperor frightens.”