The fortunes of Fifi

by Molly Elliot Seawell

A church clock chimed six. Cartouche came out of his troubled day-dream with a start—he was already due at the theater. He ran as fast as his bad leg would allow him, and for the first time in the eight years he had been employed there, was late.

Duvernet, the manager, was walking the floor of his dingy little office and tearing his hair. He was dressed for the part of the Cid Campeador in the drama of the evening. Duvernet never made the mistake of acting a trivial part. He clattered about in a full suit of tin armor, but had inadvertently clapped his hat on his head. Although there was but little time to spare, the manager was obliged to pour out his woes to Cartouche.

“Julie Campionet saw Fifi return, with all her boxes,” he groaned; “and—well, you know Julie Campionet—I have had the devil’s own time the whole afternoon. Then Fifi marched herself over here—the minx. I called her Fifi, at first. She drew herself up like an offended empress and said, ‘Mademoiselle Chiaramonti, if you please.’ She then informed me, with an air of grand condescension that she might return here as leading lady, and told me, quite negligently, that she was the person who gave the ninety thousand francs to the soldiers’ orphans’ fund. You would have thought she was in the habit of giving ninety thousand francs to charity every morning before breakfast. She swore she did not intend to acknowledge it until she had got a place as leading lady at a theater that suited her; likewise that she proposed to be billed as Mademoiselle Chiaramonti, cousin to the Holy Father, and to have the story of her relationship to the Pope published in every newspaper in Paris, and demanded fifty francs the week. The advertising alone is worth a hundred francs the week; but you know, Cartouche, no woman on earth could stand a hundred francs the week and keep sane. Then, she tells me that she has a magnificent wardrobe—she wore that brooch in here, which I have never been able to satisfy myself is real or not—and took such a high tone altogether that I began to ask myself if I were the manager of this theater or was Fifi. And then the last information she gave me was that she was to marry you this day fortnight—”

“Ah!” cried Cartouche, gloomily.

“And said if I didn’t give her back her old place as leading lady that I would have to part with you. I said something about Julie Campionet, and being my wife, and so on, and then Fifi flew into a royal rage, saying she would settle with Julie Campionet herself. Then Julie came rushing into the room, and she and Fifi had it out in great style. You never heard such a noise in your life—it was like killing pigs, and Julie fell in my arms and screamed to me to protect her, and Fifi started that infernal dog of hers to barking, and there was a devil of a row, and how it ended I don’t know, except that both of them are vowing vengeance on me. But one thing is sure—I can’t let a chance go of securing the Pope’s cousin, who won the first prize in the lottery and gave away ninety thousand francs. And then—what Julie—”

The manager groaned and buried his head in his hands. Like the unfortunate Louis Bourcet, all he could make out was, that whatever he did would be highly imprudent.

It was already late, and there was not another moment to lose, so Cartouche had to run away and leave the manager to his misery.

The performance was hardly up to the mark that night. Sensational tales of Fifi’s return had flown like wildfire about the theater. She was commonly reported to have come back in a coach and pair, with a van full of huge boxes, all crammed with the most superb costumes. Such stories were naturally disquieting to Julie Campionet, and together with her scene in the afternoon, impaired her performance visibly.

As for Fifi, she was at that moment established in her old room, which luckily was vacant, and was cooking a pair of pork chops over a charcoal stove—and was perfectly happy. So was Toto, who barked vociferously, and had to be held in Fifi’s arms, to keep his paws off the red-hot stove. There was a bottle of wine, some sausages, and onions and cheese, and a box of highly colored bonbons, for which Fifi had rashly expended three francs. But it is not every day, thought Fifi, that one comes home to one’s best beloved—and so she made a little feast for Cartouche and herself.

Cartouche was late that night, and trying to avoid Fifi, he mounted softly to his garret. As he approached Fifi’s door, he saw the light through a chink. Fifi heard his step, quiet as it was, and opening the door wide, cried out gaily: