“And if I allow you to bill me as his Holiness’ cousin, and you give me seventy-five francs—”
“Sixty, Mademoiselle.”
“Seventy-five francs, will you promise always to take my part when I quarrel with Julie Campionet?”
“Good God! What a proposition! I am married to Julie Campionet!”
“Have you really and actually straightened out your divorces from your other three wives?” asked Fifi maliciously.
“N-n-not exactly. To tell you the truth, Fi—I mean, Mademoiselle—I get those divorce suits and those leading ladies so mixed up in my head, that I am not quite sure about anything concerning them. But if you doubt that I am married to Julie Campionet, just listen to her when she is giving me a wigging, and you will be convinced.”
“Of course,” continued Fifi, dismissing Duvernet and Julie Campionet and their matrimonial complications with a wave of the hand, “it is not really necessary for me to act at all. I have a fortune in my diamond brooch, any time I choose to sell it. I gave away ninety thousand francs—but in my brooch I hold on to enough to keep the wolf from the door.” Then, a dazzling coup coming into her head, she remarked casually, “I hope Cartouche is not marrying me for my diamond brooch.”
Duvernet, a good deal exasperated by Fifi’s airs, replied, with a grin:
“Cartouche tells me he isn’t going to marry you at all.”
“We will see about that,” said Fifi, using the same enigmatic words Cartouche had used, when the matrimonial proposition was first offered for his consideration.