“I should like to have him for my majordomo,” said the Holy Father.
“He is not much of an actor though, to say nothing of his stiff leg. Cartouche is an angel, Holy Father, but he can not act. So he does not get much salary—only twenty-five francs the week. However, I know two things: that Cartouche is the best of men, and that I love him with all my heart. Holy Father, was not that reason enough for not marrying Louis Bourcet?”
“Quite reason enough,” softly answered the Holy Father.
“After all, though, it was Louis Bourcet who got rid of me. It was like this, Holy Father. I knew as long as I had a hundred thousand francs that Louis Bourcet would marry me, no matter how outlandish my behavior was; and I also knew, as long as I had a hundred thousand francs, Cartouche never would marry me. And as I wanted to be happy, I concluded to get rid of my hundred thousand francs, and that horrid, pious, correct, stupid, pompous Louis Bourcet at the same time—”
And then Fifi burst into the whole story of her adventures, beginning with her putting the box of old shoes in the bank, and sewing her money up in the mattress. Through it all the Holy Father sat with his hand to his lips and coughed occasionally.
Fifi knew how to tell her story, and gave very graphic pictures of her life and adventures in the Rue de l’Echelle. She told it all, including her return to the street of the Black Cat in the same van with her boxes, her proposal of marriage to Cartouche and Toto’s share in the proceedings. The Holy Father listened attentively, and after an extra spell of coughing at the end, inquired gravely:
“And what did Cartouche say to your proposition to marry him?”
“Holy Father, he behaved horridly, and has not yet agreed, although the poor fellow is eating his heart out for me. He says still, I am far above him—for, you see, Holy Father, as soon as I have it published that I am the giver of ninety thousand francs to the orphans’ fund, all Paris will flock to see me act—and then—I shall be billed as Mademoiselle Chiaramonti—cousin of the Holy Father, the Pope. That alone is worth twenty-five francs the week extra.”
A crash resounded. The Holy Father’s footstool had tumbled over noisily. The Holy Father himself was staring in consternation at Fifi.
“On the bills, did you say?”