“At all events,” said Cartouche, after a while, “I can make Julie Campionet behave herself as long as she is willing to stay here by threatening to lodge an information against both of you with the magistrate.”
“Do,” anxiously urged Duvernet. “I would not mind serving a short term in prison if Julie gets troublesome. Well, all men are fools where women are concerned.”
“No, they are not,” replied Cartouche darkly; “there are a few bachelors left.”
“It is fate, destiny, what you will,” said the mournful bridegroom. “That woman, Julie Campionet—or Duvernet she is now—meant to marry me from the start, just like the rest. Oh, if only little Fifi were here once more!”
If only little Fifi were here once more! Poor Cartouche’s lonely heart echoed that wish.
CHAPTER V
A PARCEL OF OLD SHOES
The day arrived when Fifi’s hundred thousand francs was to be paid over to her and deposited in the bank. Fifi had taken for granted that Cartouche would be with her on that momentous occasion; but when the day came no Cartouche appeared, so she was forced to ask Madame Bourcet and Louis Bourcet to attend her. This they both agreed to do, with the utmost alacrity.
Fifi still remained perfectly and strangely docile, but her mind had begun to work normally once more, and Fifi had a very strong little mind, which could work with great vigor. She had the enormous advantage of belonging to that class of persons who always know exactly what they want, and what they do not want. She did not want to have her money where she could not get it; and banks seemed to her mysterious institutions which were designed to lock people’s money up and prevent them from getting the benefit of it, but offered no security whatever that somebody other than the owner should not get the benefit of it. She had heretofore kept all her money—when she had any—sewed up in her mattress, in a place where she could feel it, if she wished to; and the mattress was perfectly safe; whereas, she had no guaranty that the bank was.
So Fifi quietly but decisively made up her mind that she would get hold of her hundred thousand francs and put it in a safe place—that is to say, the mattress. It might not be difficult to manage. Madame Bourcet told her she must take a tin box with her, and kindly provided the box; but it was not impossible—Suppose, thought Fifi, she could quietly transfer the money to a large reticule she possessed, and put something, old shoes, for example, in the tin box she would deposit in the bank? She had plenty of old shoes in her mysterious trunk. Fifi was charmed with this notion.
On the morning of the great day she took the precaution to fill her reticule with old shoes, fasten it to her belt, and it was so well concealed by her flowing red cloak that nobody but herself knew she had a reticule. Madame Bourcet, Louis and herself were to go in the carriage of Madame Bourcet’s brother, a professor of mathematics, who had married a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, and was held up as a model of wisdom and a prodigy of virtue therefor.