“Here is supper ready for you, Cartouche, and Toto and I waiting for you.”
Cartouche could not resist. He had meant to—but after all, he was but human—and Fifi was so sweet—so sweet to him. He came in, therefore, awkwardly enough, and feeling like a villain the while, he sat down at the rickety little table, on which Fifi had spread a feast, seasoned with love.
“Cartouche,” she said presently, when they were eating and drinking, “you must get a holiday for this day fortnight.”
“What for?” asked Cartouche, gnawing his chop—Fifi cooked chops beautifully.
“Because that is the day we are to be married,” briskly responded Fifi.
Cartouche put down his chop.
“Fifi,” he said. “You will break my heart. Why will you persist in throwing yourself away on me?”
“Dear me!” cried Fifi to Toto, “how very silly Cartouche is to-night! And what a horrid fiancé he makes—worse than Louis Bourcet.”
Then Fifi told him about some of the tricks she had played on poor Louis, and Cartouche was obliged to laugh.
“At least, Fifi,” he said, “you shan’t marry me, until you have consulted his Holiness.”