“Mademoiselle,” replied Louis in a voice of thunder, still from behind the screen, “I consider that gown wholly improper for you to appear before any one in, myself included.”
“Just come and take a look at it,” pleaded Fifi.
“I will not, Mademoiselle; and I give you warning I am now about to leave this room.”
“I thought you would contrive to get a look at me, and not stick behind that screen,” remarked Fifi, with a sudden explosion of laughter, as Louis stalked from behind the screen. But the injustice and impropriety of her remark was emphasized by his indignantly turning his head away from her as he made for the door.
“Oh,” cried Fifi, impishly, “you can see me perfectly well in the mirror, with your head turned that way!”
An angry bang of the door after him was Louis Bourcet’s only answer to this.
Fifi surveyed herself in the mirror which she had accused the innocent Louis of studying.
“This gown is perfectly outrageous, and it would be as much as my life is worth to let Cartouche see it,” she thought. “But if only it can frighten off that odious, ridiculous thing, how happy I shall be!”
Fifi retired to her room. Eight o’clock was the hour when tea was served in the drawing-room, and both Madame Bourcet and Louis appeared on the scene inwardly uncomfortable as to the meeting with Fifi. There sat Fifi, but without the least appearance of discomfort; on the contrary, more smiling and more at ease than they had ever seen her. The door to her bedroom was open, and as soon as Madame Bourcet and Louis entered they were saluted by an overwhelming odor of burning. Madame Bourcet, who was a fire-fiend, shrieked at once: