The fortunes of Fifi

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“Cartouche: I will not stand your conduct. I give you warning; I will not permit it. You are responsible for my being here. But for you and that—” here a word was erased, but Cartouche saw the faint outlines of “devilish”—“lottery ticket, I should have still been in my little room under the roof—I should still have you and Toto. Oh, Cartouche, I shall have to marry Louis Bourcet—I see it, I know it, I feel it. He has not a fault in the world, so Madame Bourcet says. Imagine what a brute I shall appear alongside of him! He plays cribbage. That is his only dissipation. But I see that I must marry him, for this life I am leading can not last. Madame Bourcet tells me she has four or five diseases, any one of which is liable to carry her off any day; and then I should be left alone in Paris with a hundred thousand francs. Something—everything seems to be driving me toward marrying Louis Bourcet. Poor Louis! How sorry he will be after he gets me! Next week, Madame Bourcet takes me out to Fontainebleau where I am to be presented to the Holy Father. The gown has come home, and it is more hideous than it was in the shop. If the Holy Father has any taste in dress that gown will ruin my chances with him. Cartouche, I am not joking—I can never joke any more. But I will not put up with your behavior. Do you understand me? It is Fifi who says this. You know, you always told me when I flew into a rage I could frighten Monsieur Duvernet. You remember, he often ran into his closet and locked the door when I was storming at him at the theater. I am much more angry now.

Fifi.”

To this letter also Cartouche made no answer. He did not know the ways of ladies who had dowries of a hundred thousand francs. He had heard they were always supplied with husbands by some one duly empowered; and these decisions, he imagined, were like the laws of the Medes and Persians. He felt for his poor little Fifi; her vivid, incoherent words were perfectly intelligible to him and went like a knife into his heart. He mused over them in such poignant grief that he could hardly drag himself through his multitude of duties. He had no life or spirit to keep watch over Duvernet; and Julie Campionet, one fine morning, took advantage of this and, walking the manager off to the mairie, married him out of hand. The first thing Cartouche knew of it was when the bridegroom, with a huge white favor in his buttonhole, marched into Cartouche’s garret.

“She’s done it, Cartouche,” groaned Duvernet. “They all do.”

Cartouche knew perfectly well what poor Duvernet meant.

“She has, has she?” he roared, “and did you tell her about the three other women you have married, and got yourself in such a precious mess with?”

“Yes,” groaned Duvernet, seating himself on the side of the bed. “She knows all about it—but I couldn’t explain which ones had sued me for divorce, and which I had sued. But Julie didn’t mind. You see, she is thirty-six years old, and never has been married, and she made up her mind it wasn’t worth while to wait longer; and when women get that way, it’s no use opposing them.”

“The last time,” shouted Cartouche, quite beside himself at the manager’s folly, for which he himself felt twinges of conscience, “the last time you said it was because she was a widow! Duvernet, as sure as you are alive, you will bring yourself behind the bars of Ste. Pélagie.”

“If I do,” cried poor Duvernet, stung by Cartouche’s reproaches, “whose fault will it be? If you had kept an eye on Julie Campionet, this never would have happened. It was you who bought that cursed lottery ticket for Fifi, and lost me the only leading lady I ever had who didn’t insist on marrying me against my will.”

Here was a cud for Cartouche to chew upon: young ladies reproaching him bitterly for giving them a hundred thousand francs in cash, and happy bridegrooms reviling him because through him they secured brides. Cartouche was too stunned by it all to answer. The only thing he could do was to try to keep Duvernet’s unfortunate weakness from landing him in jail. Luckily, none of his wives had any use for Duvernet, after a very short probation, and as he had no property to speak of, and the earnings of the Imperial Theater were uncertain, there was no money to be squeezed out of him. So, unless the authorities should get wind of Duvernet’s matrimonial ventures, which he persisted in regarding as mere escapades, into which he was led by a stronger will than his own, he would be allowed to roam at large.