“Yap!” assented Toto.
The door to Cartouche’s room was a half-door, the upper part of glass. This upper half-door was a little ajar, and Fifi caught sight of Cartouche. He was sitting on his poor bed, with a large piece of tin before him, which he was transforming into a medieval shield. He was hard at work—for who ever saw Cartouche idle? But once or twice he stopped, and picked up something lying on the table before him, and looked at it. Fifi recognized it at once. It was a little picture of herself, taken long ago, when she used to sit on Cartouche’s knee and beg him to tell her stories. Fifi felt a lump in her throat, and called out softly and tremulously:
“Cartouche! I am here. It is Fifi.”
Cartouche dropped his tools as if lightning-struck, and turned toward the door—and there was Fifi’s smiling face peering at him.
He went straight to the door and opened the upper part wide. Fifi saw that he was quite pale, though his dark and expressive eyes were burning, and it was plain to her that he was consumed with love and longing for her—but he was almost cross when he spoke.
“What brings you here, Fifi?” he asked.
“Everything that is good. First, Louis Bourcet has jilted me—” and Fifi capered gleefully with Toto in her arms.
“Is that anything to be merry about?” inquired Cartouche, sternly; but Fifi saw that his strong brown hand trembled as it lay on the sill of the half-door.
“Indeed it is—if you knew Louis Bourcet—and he did it because of my nobility of soul.”
“Humph,” said Cartouche.