“Wicked, wicked Julie Campionet,” said the Holy Father softly; and Fifi knew he was laughing at her. Then he grew serious and said: “My child, it is important—nay, necessary—for you to be properly married. You are too young, too friendless, too inexperienced, to be safe until you have the protection of a good husband. Madame Bourcet has brought me proofs of the worth and respectability of her nephew, Monsieur Louis Bourcet, and, as the head of your family, I urge you to marry this worthy young man.”
Fifi sat still, the dazed, submissive look coming back into her face. Everything seemed to compel her to marry Louis Bourcet. As the Holy Father had said, she must marry some one. She felt a sense of despair, which involved resignation to her fate. The Holy Father looked at her sharply, but said gently:
“Is there no one else?”
“No one, Holy Father,” replied Fifi.
There was no one but Cartouche; and Cartouche would neither see her nor write to her, and besides had never spoken a word of love to her in his life. If she had remained at the theater she could have made Cartouche marry her; but now that was impossible. Fifi was finding out some things in her new life which robbed her of one of her chief weapons—ignorance of convention.
“And Monsieur Bourcet is worthy?” she heard the Holy Father saying, and she replied mechanically:
“Quite worthy.”
“And you do not dislike him?”
“No,” said Fifi, after a moment’s pause. There was not enough in Louis Bourcet to dislike.
Fifi rose. She could not bear any more on this subject. The Holy Father, smiling at Fifi’s taking the initiative in closing the interview, said to her: