The fortunes of Fifi

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“And after all,” she thought, “although Cartouche laughed at me for thinking the Holy Father had looked at me that night, I know he did—perhaps I am like my father or my grandfather, and that was why he looked.” And then she remembered what Cartouche had said about the private soldiers not being afraid when the Emperor talked with them. “It will be the same with the Holy Father,” she thought. “He is so far above me—why, it would be ridiculous for me to be afraid of him.”

It took all of three hours to get to Fontainebleau, and Fifi felt that the world was a very large place indeed. They drove through the splendid park and dismounted before the great château. Then, Madame Bourcet showing some cabalistic card or other token, it was understood that the visit of the two ladies was expected by the Pope. They were escorted up the great horseshoe stairs and into a small salon, where luncheon was served to them, after their long drive. Madame Bourcet was too elegant to eat much, but Fifi, whose appetite had been in abeyance ever since she left the street of the Black Cat, revived, and she devoured her share with a relish. It was the first time she had been hungry since she had had enough to eat.

Presently a sour-looking ecclesiastic came to escort them to the presence of the Holy Father. The ecclesiastic was clearly in a bad humor. The Holy Father was always being appealed to by widows with grievances, real or imaginary, young ladies who did not want to marry the husbands selected for them, young men who had got themselves in discredit with their families or superiors, and the Holy Father had a way of treating these sinners as if they were not sinners at all. Indeed, he often professed himself to be edified by their pious repentance; and the ecclesiastic never quite understood whether the Holy Father was quietly amusing himself at the expense of his household or not. But one thing was certain to the ecclesiastic’s mind: the Holy Father had not that horror of sinners which the world commonly has, and was far too easy on them.

With these thoughts in mind, he introduced Madame Bourcet into the Pope’s cabinet, while Fifi remained in the anteroom, guarded by another ecclesiastic, who looked much more human than his colleague. This last one thought it necessary to infuse courage into Fifi concerning the coming interview, but to his amazement found Fifi not in the least afraid.

“I don’t know why, Monsieur, I should be afraid,” she said. “A friend of mine—Cartouche—says the private soldiers are not the least afraid of the Emperor, and are perfectly at ease when he speaks to them, while the councillors of state and the marshals and the great nobles can not look him in the eye.”

“And may I ask who is this Cartouche, Mademoiselle?” asked the ecclesiastic.

“He is a friend of mine,” replied Fifi warily.

At last, after twenty minutes, Madame Bourcet came out. She was pale and agitated, but showed satisfaction in every feature.

“The Holy Father approves of my nephew, provided you have no objection to him,” she whispered. And the next moment Fifi found herself alone with the Holy Father.

Although the afternoon was mild and sunny, a large fire was burning on the hearth, and close to it, in a large armchair, sat Pius the Seventh. He gave Fifi the same impression of whiteness and benevolence he had given her at that chance meeting three months before.