As for Louis Bourcet, he thought that a discerning Providence had dropped Fifi, with her hundred thousand francs, into his mouth, as it were. He knew that she had been an actress in a poor little theater; but she was a Chiaramonti, her grandfather was own cousin to the Holy Father, and the hundred thousand francs covered a multitude of sins.
And it was another of the rewards of a judicious Providence that Fifi’s money had come to her as it had—dropping from the sky into her lap. There was no prying father, no meddling trustee to interfere with her prospective husband’s future control of it. Louis Bourcet was honest, if conceited, and meant to do a good part by Fifi. He contemplated making her exactly like his aunt, in every respect; and as Fifi was only nineteen, Louis had not the slightest doubt that with his authority as a husband, together with his personal charms, he would be able to mold Fifi to his will, and make her rapturously happy in the act of doing it.
As soon as Fifi was established in Madame Bourcet’s apartment, Louis began to lay siege to her. Regularly every evening at eight o’clock, he arrived—to pay his respects to his aunt. Regularly did he propose to play a game of cribbage with Fifi: a dull and uninteresting game, which involved counting—and counting had always been a weak point with Fifi—she always counted her salary at too much, and her expenses at too little.
Her counting at cribbage determined Louis to keep the family purse himself, after they were married—for Louis looked forward securely to this event. Regularly at nine o’clock Madame Bourcet fell asleep, or professed to fall asleep, peacefully in her armchair. Regularly, Louis improved the opportunity by telling Fifi how much his income was, going into the minutest detail. That, however, took only a short time; but much more was consumed in telling how he spent it. A very little wine; no cards or billiards; a solemn visit four times the year to the Théâtre Française to see a classic play, and a fortnight in summer in the country. Such was the life which Louis subtly proposed that Fifi should lead with him.
Fifi listened, dazed and silent. The room was so quiet, so quiet, and at that hour all was life, hustle, gaiety and movement at the Imperial Theater. She knew to the very moment what Cartouche was doing, and what Toto was doing; and there was that hateful minx, Julie Campionet, being rapturously applauded in parts which were as much Fifi’s as the clothes upon Fifi’s back—for Julie Campionet had promptly succeeded to Fifi’s vacant place, in spite of Cartouche. All this distracted Fifi’s attention from the nightly game of cribbage and made her count worse than ever.
And so Fifi began to live, for the first time, without love and without work. Only the other day, she remembered, she had been hungry and hard-worked and happy: and now she was neither hungry nor hard-worked, but assuredly, she was not happy.
She had not seen Cartouche since the day he left her and her boxes in the Rue de l’Echelle, and had walked off with Toto, and, incidentally, with all of Fifi’s happiness. She had directed him to come to see her often, and he had not once been near her! At this thought Fifi clenched her little fists with rage: Cartouche was her own—her very own—and how dared he treat her in this manner?
In the beginning, every day Fifi expected him, and would run to the window twenty times in an afternoon. But he neither came nor wrote. After a while, Fifi’s heart became sore and she burst out before Madame Bourcet and Louis:
“Cartouche has not come to see me; he has not even written.”
“But, my dear child,” remonstrated Madame Bourcet, “you surely do not expect to keep up a correspondence with a—a—person like this Monsieur—what—do—you—call—him—”