“A thousand francs, I said a few minutes ago—two thousand I say now. Only ninety-eight thousand francs of her fortune is left—of that I am sure.”
“I am not sure there is so much left,” responded Louis gloomily.
The door opened and a vision appeared. It was Fifi in the spangled white ball gown à la grecque. The narrow, scanty skirt did not reach to her ankles. The waist, according to the fashion of the time, was under her arms, and the bodice was about four inches long. There were no sleeves, only tiny straps across Fifi’s white arms; and her whole outfit could have been put in Louis Bourcet’s waistcoat pocket.
Madame Bourcet fell back in her chair, with a groan. Louis rose, red and furious, and said in portentous tones:
“You will excuse me, Mademoiselle, if I retire behind the screen while you remain with that costume on in my presence.”
“Do you want me to take it off then?” asked Fifi airily; but Louis was already behind the screen.
“Aunt,” he called out sternly, “kindly let me know when Mademoiselle Chiaramonti has retired.”
“I can not,” responded Madame Bourcet, briefly, “for I shall myself retire.” And Madame Bourcet marched away to her own room.
“Louis,” said a timid, tender little voice, “don’t you think this gown more suitable to wear than the yellow brocade when we go to pay our visit of ceremony to the Holy Father?”
Louis Bourcet was near choking with wrath at this. What right had she to call him Louis? He had never asked her to do so—their engagement was not even formally announced; he had never spoken to her or of her except as Mademoiselle Chiaramonti. And that gown to go visiting the Holy Father!