She was gratified, for at eleven o’clock, Louis appeared, looking, for once, a little sheepish. The desperate robbery had been no robbery at all, but a gift of ninety thousand francs to the fund for the soldiers’ orphans. Louis had bought several newspapers, and each contained the official announcement of the banking-house of Lafitte, with a request that the generous donor come forward and discover her identity.
Louis Bourcet, like a good many other people, could always construct a new hypothesis to meet any new development in a case. He at once declared that the donor must be a conscience-stricken woman, who had at some time committed a crime and wished to atone for it. He harped on this theme while Fifi was soberly drinking her chocolate and inwardly quivering with delight. She waited until one of Louis’s long-winded periods came to an end, when, the spirit of the actress within her, and the piercing joy of making Louis Bourcet look like a guy, were too much for her. Putting down her cup, therefore, and looking about her in a way to command attention, Fifi said, in a soft, low voice:
“Madame Bourcet—and dear Louis—” here Louis shuddered—“I have something to say to you, concerning that mysterious old woman with the limp and the basket. First, let me say, that until yesterday, I kept my fortune of nearly ninety thousand francs in my mattress, and my old shoes I kept in the bank. For people are always losing their money in banks, but I never heard of any one losing a franc that was sewed up in a mattress.”
There was a pause. Louis Bourcet sat as if turned to stone, with his chocolate raised to his lips, and his mouth wide open to receive it, but he seemed to lose the power of moving his hand or shutting his mouth. Madame Bourcet appeared to be paralyzed where she sat.
“Yes,” said Fifi, who felt as if she were once more on the beloved boards of the Imperial Theater. “I kept my money where I knew it would be safe. And then, seeing I had totally failed to captivate the affections of my fiancé, I determined to perform an act of splendid generosity, that would compel his admiration, and possibly, his tenderness. So, yesterday, when you, Madame, were out, I dressed myself up in Angéline’s Sunday clothes, took her small fruit basket, and putting all my fortune in the basket, went to the bank, and handed it all over, in notes of the Bank of France, to the fund for soldiers’ orphans.”
There was not a sound, except Madame Bourcet’s gasping for breath. Louis Bourcet had turned of a sickly pallor, his mouth remaining wide open, and his cup still suspended. This lasted for a full minute, when the door suddenly opened, and Angéline appeared from the kitchen.
“Madame,” she cried excitedly, “there have been thieves here as well as at the bank. My fruit basket is gone—I can swear I saw it yesterday morning. It is marked with my initials, A. D., and I trust, by the blessing of God, the thief will be found and sent to the galleys for life.”
At this apparently trivial catastrophe, Madame Bourcet uttered a loud shriek; Louis Bourcet dropped his cup, which crashed upon the table, smashing the water carafe; Angéline, amazed at the result of her simple remark, ran wildly about the room shrieking, “Thieves! thieves! Send for the police!” Madame Bourcet continued to emit screams at short intervals, while Louis Bourcet, his head in his hands, groaned in anguish.
Fifi, alone, sat serene and smiling, and as soon as she could make herself heard, cried to Louis:
“Dear Louis, tell me, I beg of you, if you approve of my course?”