Some minutes passed. The world was changing its aspect so rapidly to Cartouche that he hardly recognized it as the same old planet he had known for thirty-five years.
The Emperor waited until Cartouche had a little recovered himself, although he was still pale and breathed hard. Then the Emperor said:
“I shall cause the Holy Father to be informed of Fifi’s existence. He is a good old man, although as obstinate as the devil. Oh, I am sure we can arrange for Fifi; and then, Cartouche, how about a husband for her?”
The Emperor, as he said this, looked steadily at Cartouche; but Cartouche, looking back as steadily, replied:
“I should think the Holy Father would arrange that, your Majesty.”
“True,” replied the Emperor, “but I wish one of my deserving young officers might suit the Holy Father as Fifi’s husband. I say, Cartouche, how hard life is sometimes! Now, because Fifi is rich through the lottery ticket you bought her, you can never hope to marry her.”
“Oh, your Majesty, that could not have been in any event,” answered Cartouche, a dull red showing through his dark skin. “I am sixteen years older than Fifi, and I have a stiff leg, and although I make what is reckoned a good living for a man like me, it is not the sort of living for a notary’s daughter like Fifi. No, your Majesty; I love Fifi, but I never thought to make her my wife. She deserves a better man than I am.”
“Another sort of a man, Cartouche, but not a better one,” replied the Emperor, gently tweaking Cartouche’s ear. “I shall arrange for the Holy Father to be told of Fifi’s existence, and we shall see about the hundred thousand francs; and, Cartouche, if you are in any trouble or perplexity, come to your Emperor.”
And with that, Cartouche knew the interview was over, and he went away with a heart both light and heavy. For Cartouche was a very human man after all, and the thought of Fifi’s having a husband made the whole world black to him.