“Yes, Holy Father. On the big red and blue posters all over the quarter of Paris.”
“It must not be,” said the Holy Father, with a quiet firmness that impressed Fifi very much. “How much did you say it was worth?”
“I say twenty-five francs. Duvernet, the manager, says only fifteen.”
“Where is this Duvernet?”
“Waiting for me in the anteroom below, Holy Father. He came out to Fontainebleau to try to get me to make the arrangement at once.”
The Pope touched a bell at hand, and a servant appeared, who was directed to bring Manager Duvernet to him at once. Then, turning to Fifi, he said:
“Monsieur Duvernet must give up all ideas of this outrageous playbill—and in consideration, I will secure to you an annuity of twenty-five francs the week as long as you live.”
“How good it is of you, Holy Father!” cried Fifi. Then she added dolefully: “But I am afraid if Cartouche knows I am to be as rich as that, I shall have more trouble than ever getting him to marry me. What shall I do, Holy Father, about telling him?”
The Pope reflected a moment or two.
“It is a difficult situation, but it must be managed,” he answered.