Two Italians, each with a robust-looking monkey, were squabbling on the stairs with Angéline. The Italians, each bent on getting in first, had begun a scuffle which was growing perilously near a fight. Neither paid the slightest attention to Angéline’s fierce demand that they and their monkeys take themselves off. When Fifi appeared, both of the monkey venders burst into voluble explanations and denunciations. Fifi, however, had lost something of her cool courage. In her heart she was afraid of monkeys, and had not meant to let them get so far as the drawing-room door.
“Ah,” she cried to the Italians, thinking to pacify both of them, “here is a franc apiece for your trouble, and take the monkeys away. I don’t think either will suit.”
“No!” shrieked both of the Italians in chorus. “We have brought our monkeys and Mademoiselle must at least examine them.”
This was anything but an agreeable proposition to Fifi; nor was she reassured by each of the Italians declaring vehemently that his rival’s monkey was as fierce as a lion and a disgrace to the simian tribe. Fifi secretly thought that both of them were telling the truth in that respect, and totally disbelieved them when each swore that his own monkey was a companion fit for kings. All Fifi could do, therefore, was to say, with an assumption of bravado:
“I will give you each two francs if you will go away and bring the monkeys to-morrow.”
“Three francs!” shouted one of her compatriots, while the other bawled, “Five francs!”
Fifi had as much as ten francs about her, so she gladly paid the ten francs, and the Italians departed, each swearing he would come the next day, and would, meanwhile, have the other’s blood.
Fifi returned to the drawing-room. On the hearth-rug stood Louis, pale and determined.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “there must be an end of this.”
“Of what?” asked Fifi, innocently.