There was a pause. Fifi looked toward the Holy Father.
“Forty francs,” said the Holy Father.
Duvernet, with the air and manner of a Roman senator acknowledging defeat, bowed superbly and said:
“Your Holiness wins,” and backed toward the door.
Fifi turned to the Pope, and said with shining eyes:
“Holy Father, I thank you more than I can ever, ever say—I promise never to do anything to dishonor the name I bear. And Duvernet,” she added, turning to where the manager stood with folded arms and the expression of a martyr: “Recollect, even if it is not put on the bill that I am the granddaughter of the Holy Father’s cousin, that I am still valuable. Did I not win the first prize in the lottery? And did I not give ninety thousand francs to the soldiers’ orphans? And shan’t I be thanked in person by the Emperor and Empress? Match me that if you can. And besides, have I not the finest diamond brooch in Paris?”
“If it is diamond,” said Duvernet under his breath, but not so low that the Holy Father did not hear him. However, without noticing this, the Pope asked of him:
“Monsieur, will you kindly give me your opinion of Monsieur Cartouche, whom my young relative wishes to marry?”
Duvernet paused a minute, trying to find words to express what he thought of Cartouche, but in the end could only say:
“Your Holiness, Cartouche is—well, I could not conduct the Imperial Theater without Cartouche. And he is the most honest and the most industrious man I ever saw in my life.”