“And what does our friend Cartouche say to this? Cartouche,” he explained to the Empress, “is my old friend of Lodi, the only man who crossed the bridge before me, and he came to see me and consulted me about this young lady’s fortune.”
“Cartouche, Sire, does not know it.”
“Why? Have you fallen out with Cartouche?”
“Oh, no, Sire. Cartouche and I are to be married a week from Thursday,” replied Fifi, smiling and blushing.
“Then explain why he does not know about the Pope’s forty francs, since you are to marry him so soon?”
“Because, Sire, Cartouche does not want to marry me—I mean, that is, he thinks he is not young enough or rich enough or well-born enough for me—which is all nonsense, Sire.”
“Yes—I know something about you and Cartouche.”
“And I never could have married him if I had not got rid of my money. But I am afraid if Cartouche knows of my forty francs the week he will make a difficulty.”
“In that case we must not let him know anything about it. But I was told by my arch-treasurer Lebrun that a marriage had been arranged for you with a young advocate here whom Lebrun knows well, by name Bourcet. What becomes of that?”
Fifi smiled and blushed more than ever, and remained silent until the Empress said, in her flute-like voice: