behold fifi, a fortnight afterward, installed in a quiet and correct apartment in the rue de l’echelle, under the charge of a certain madame bourcet, who was as quiet and correct as her apartment. and madame bourcet had a nephew, louis bourcet, more quiet and more correct even than herself, and he aspired to marry fifi and her hundred thousand francs.
it was all like a dream to fifi. the emperor had been as good as his word. he had consulted lebrun, the arch-treasurer, who had advised, as fifi was likely to be provided soon with a husband, that the hundred thousand francs be again deposited in the bank, as soon as it was drawn, less a small amount for fifi’s present expenses. he argued, that it would simplify matters in her marriage contract to have her dot in cash—which recommended itself to all who knew, as sound doctrine.
he had also been asked by the emperor, if he [pg 74]knew of a respectable person who would take charge of fifi for the present. it would still be some time before the day came which she and cartouche had named for the actual payment of the money. and besides it was necessary to prepare for fifi’s presentation to the holy father, and everybody, including fifi herself, agreed that certain preliminaries of dress and custom be arranged for that momentous interview. lebrun had bethought him of madame bourcet, whose deceased husband had been a hanger-on of the arch-treasurer’s. thus it was that the day after fifi finished her engagement at the imperial theater, cartouche had deposited her and her boxes in the quiet apartment of the quiet madame bourcet.
there was one box which she particularly treasured and would not let out of her sight from the time it was put into the van until it was placed in the large, cold, handsome room which was set aside for her in madame bourcet’s apartment. no one but fifi knew what was in this box. it contained her whole theatrical wardrobe, consisting of three costumes, and her entire assortment of wigs, old shoes, cosmetics and such impedimenta. fifi would not have parted with these for half her fortune. [pg 75]they would be something real, substantial and familiar in her new environment. they gave her a mystic hold upon the street of the black cat, upon the imperial theater, and upon cartouche, so fifi felt.
toto was brought along with the boxes, but met with such a cool reception from madame bourcet that he declined to remain; nor would madame bourcet admit a dog of his theatrical antecedents in her family. nothing had been said about a dog; she disliked dogs, because they barked; there was no place for him in the apartment. toto showed his understanding of madame bourcet’s attitude toward him by deliberately turning his back on her, and walking out of the house after cartouche. fifi said not a word. she was too dazed to make any protest. cartouche’s honest heart was wrung when he left her sitting silent and alone in madame bourcet’s drawing-room.
it was a large, dull room with a snuff-colored carpet on the floor, snuff-colored furniture and snuff-colored curtains to the windows, which overlooked a great, quiet courtyard. no wonder that fifi, as soon as cartouche left her, rushed into her own room, which adjoined the drawing-room, and opening[pg 76] her treasured box, took out an old white wig, and clasping it to her bosom, rocked to and fro in an agony. there was but one thing in the box that was not hers, and that was a wooden javelin which cartouche had used with great effect in his part of the centurion of the pretorian guard. it was rather a commonplace looking javelin in the cold light of day, but fifi held that, too, to her breast; it was those things that kept her from losing her mind; they made her feel that after all, the old life existed, and was not a nightmare, like the present.
with the moral support of the wig and the javelin she was enabled to compose herself, and to meet madame bourcet and louis bourcet, the nephew, and as fifi shrewdly suspected, the person assigned to become the future owner of her hundred thousand francs. but fifi had some ideas of her own concerning her marriage, which, although lying dormant for a time, were far from moribund.
for this first evening in her snuff-colored house, fifi, with a heavy heart, put on her best gown; it was very red and very skimpy, but fifi had been [pg 77]told she looked charming in it, which was the truth: but it didn’t seem to charm madame bourcet, when fifi finally presented herself.
madame bourcet was a small, obstinate, kindly, narrow-minded woman, who went about measuring the universe with her own tape line. louis bourcet proved to be madame bourcet in trousers. fifi thought, if louis were dressed up in his aunt’s petticoats and madame bourcet were to put on louis’ trousers, nobody could tell them apart.
before this interesting youth was presented to fifi, madame bourcet informed her that louis was the most correct young advocate in paris and had not a fault. after this promising introduction, fifi hated louis at first sight; but with that overwhelming sense of strangeness and of being led blindly toward an unknown fate, fifi gave no sign of dislike toward the most correct young advocate in paris, and the man without a fault.
as for louis bourcet, he thought that a discerning providence had dropped fifi, with her hundred thousand francs, into his mouth, as it were. he knew that she had been an actress in a poor little theater; but she was a chiaramonti, her grandfather[pg 78] was own cousin to the holy father, and the hundred thousand francs covered a multitude of sins.
and it was another of the rewards of a judicious providence that fifi’s money had come to her as it had—dropping from the sky into her lap. there was no prying father, no meddling trustee to interfere with her prospective husband’s future control of it. louis bourcet was honest, if conceited, and meant to do a good part by fifi. he contemplated making her exactly like his aunt, in every respect; and as fifi was only nineteen, louis had not the slightest doubt that with his authority as a husband, together with his personal charms, he would be able to mold fifi to his will, and make her rapturously happy in the act of doing it.
as soon as fifi was established in madame bourcet’s apartment, louis began to lay siege to her. regularly every evening at eight o’clock, he arrived—to pay his respects to his aunt. regularly did he propose to play a game of cribbage with fifi: a dull and uninteresting game, which involved counting—and counting had always been a weak point with fifi—she always counted her salary at too much, and her expenses at too little.
[pg 79]
her counting at cribbage determined louis to keep the family purse himself, after they were married—for louis looked forward securely to this event. regularly at nine o’clock madame bourcet fell asleep, or professed to fall asleep, peacefully in her armchair. regularly, louis improved the opportunity by telling fifi how much his income was, going into the minutest detail. that, however, took only a short time; but much more was consumed in telling how he spent it. a very little wine; no cards or billiards; a solemn visit four times the year to the théâtre française to see a classic play, and a fortnight in summer in the country. such was the life which louis subtly proposed that fifi should lead with him.
fifi listened, dazed and silent. the room was so quiet, so quiet, and at that hour all was life, hustle, gaiety and movement at the imperial theater. she knew to the very moment what cartouche was doing, and what toto was doing; and there was that hateful minx, julie campionet, being rapturously applauded in parts which were as much fifi’s as the clothes upon fifi’s back—for julie campionet had promptly succeeded to fifi’s vacant place, in spite of cartouche. all this distracted[pg 80] fifi’s attention from the nightly game of cribbage and made her count worse than ever.
and so fifi began to live, for the first time, without love and without work. only the other day, she remembered, she had been hungry and hard-worked and happy: and now she was neither hungry nor hard-worked, but assuredly, she was not happy.
she had not seen cartouche since the day he left her and her boxes in the rue de l’echelle, and had walked off with toto, and, incidentally, with all of fifi’s happiness. she had directed him to come to see her often, and he had not once been near her! at this thought fifi clenched her little fists with rage: cartouche was her own—her very own—and how dared he treat her in this manner?
in the beginning, every day fifi expected him, and would run to the window twenty times in an afternoon. but he neither came nor wrote. after a while, fifi’s heart became sore and she burst out before madame bourcet and louis:
“cartouche has not come to see me; he has not even written.”
“but, my dear child,” remonstrated madame [pg 81]bourcet, “you surely do not expect to keep up a correspondence with a—a—person like this monsieur—what—do—you—call—him—”
“cartouche!” cried fifi, opening her eyes very wide indeed. “why, cartouche has done everything for me! he taught me all i know about acting, and he always carried my fagots upstairs, and showed me how to clean my white shoes when they became soiled, and—”
fifi stopped. she could have told a great deal more: not only that cartouche showed her how to clean her white shoes, but that he actually took the shoes off her poor little feet when she was so, so tired; and cartouche must have been tired, too, having been on his legs—or rather his leg and a half—all the day and evening. these, and other reminiscences of cartouche, in the capacity of lady’s maid, cook, and what not, occurred to her quick memory, almost overwhelming her. it seemed to her as if he had done all for her that her mother had once done, but she could not speak of it before madame bourcet, still less louis bourcet. imagine the most correct young advocate in paris taking fifi’s shoes off, because she was tired! louis would have let her die of fatigue before he [pg 82]would have committed this horrid crime, as he conceived it.
so fifi checked the ebullition that was rising in her, and kept her head and held her tongue. but when she was once alone in her own large, solemn room, fitter for a dowager duchess than for little fifi, she poured out her soul in a letter to cartouche—thus:
“cartouche—why haven’t you been to see me? cartouche, i believe you have forgotten me—that odious julie campionet has played me some trick, i know she has. cartouche, having money is not all we thought it was. it is very dull being rich and certain of one’s dinner every day. madame bourcet and i went out yesterday and bought a gown. cartouche, do you remember when i had saved up the thirty francs to buy a cloak, and bought toto, my darling toto, instead? and how angry you were with me? and then you gave me the cloak out of your own money? don’t send toto to see me—it would break my heart. the gown i bought yesterday is hideous. it is a dark brown with green spots. madame bourcet selected it. there was a beautiful pink thing, with [pg 83]a great many spangles, that i wanted. it is just like the stuff that toto’s ballet skirt is made of. but the gown is for me to wear the day i am presented to the holy father, and madame bourcet said the pink spangled thing would not do. then she bought me some black lace to wear over my head that day, and she paid a cruel price for it, but the shops where you get new things are very dear. madame bourcet will not let me go to the second-hand shops. do you remember the blue silk robe that monsieur duvernet made me buy a year ago for forty francs, and how it turned out to have a big grease-spot in the back, and i was so afraid the spot would be seen, that it almost ruined my performance as léontine in ‘papa bouchard’? and how do you get your costumes to hang together when i am not there to sew them? i know you are coming all to pieces by this time. have you forgotten how i used to sew you up? oh, cartouche, have you forgotten all these things? i think of them all the time. i wake up in the night, thinking i hear toto barking, and it is only madame bourcet snoring. cartouche, if you don’t come to see me soon you will break my heart.
fifi.”
[pg 84]
cartouche read this letter sitting on the edge of his poor bed. his eyes grew moist, and the foolish fellow actually kissed fifi’s name; but he said to himself resolutely:
“no, i will not go to her. it will only make the struggle harder. she must separate herself from the old life, and the quicker, the better. the pain is sharp, but it will not last—for her.”
and he was such a fool that he read the letter aloud to toto, who was huddled close to him: and then the two who loved fifi so dearly—the man and the dog—rubbed noses, and mourned together, toto uttering a howl of distress and longing that cut cartouche to the heart.
“come,” said he, putting the dog aside, and rising, “i can’t go on this way. one would think i was sorry that fifi is better off than she ever hoped or dreamed.”
then he went to his cupboard, and took out a little frayed white satin slipper—one of fifi’s slippers—and held it tenderly in his hand, while his poor heart was breaking. next day, came a letter of another sort from fifi. she was very, very angry, and wrote in a large hand, and with very black ink.
[pg 85]
“cartouche: i will not stand your conduct. i give you warning; i will not permit it. you are responsible for my being here. but for you and that—” here a word was erased, but cartouche saw the faint outlines of “devilish”—“lottery ticket, i should have still been in my little room under the roof—i should still have you and toto. oh, cartouche, i shall have to marry louis bourcet—i see it, i know it, i feel it. he has not a fault in the world, so madame bourcet says. imagine what a brute i shall appear alongside of him! he plays cribbage. that is his only dissipation. but i see that i must marry him, for this life i am leading can not last. madame bourcet tells me she has four or five diseases, any one of which is liable to carry her off any day; and then i should be left alone in paris with a hundred thousand francs. something—everything seems to be driving me toward marrying louis bourcet. poor louis! how sorry he will be after he gets me! next week, madame bourcet takes me out to fontainebleau where i am to be presented to the holy father. the gown has come home, and it is more hideous than it was in the shop. if the holy father has any taste in dress that gown will ruin [pg 86]my chances with him. cartouche, i am not joking—i can never joke any more. but i will not put up with your behavior. do you understand me? it is fifi who says this. you know, you always told me when i flew into a rage i could frighten monsieur duvernet. you remember, he often ran into his closet and locked the door when i was storming at him at the theater. i am much more angry now.
fifi.”
to this letter also cartouche made no answer. he did not know the ways of ladies who had dowries of a hundred thousand francs. he had heard they were always supplied with husbands by some one duly empowered; and these decisions, he imagined, were like the laws of the medes and persians. he felt for his poor little fifi; her vivid, incoherent words were perfectly intelligible to him and went like a knife into his heart. he mused over them in such poignant grief that he could hardly drag himself through his multitude of duties. he had no life or spirit to keep watch over duvernet; and julie campionet, one fine morning, took advantage of this and, walking the manager off to the mairie, married him out of hand. the first [pg 87]thing cartouche knew of it was when the bridegroom, with a huge white favor in his buttonhole, marched into cartouche’s garret.
“she’s done it, cartouche,” groaned duvernet. “they all do.”
cartouche knew perfectly well what poor duvernet meant.
“she has, has she?” he roared, “and did you tell her about the three other women you have married, and got yourself in such a precious mess with?”
“yes,” groaned duvernet, seating himself on the side of the bed. “she knows all about it—but i couldn’t explain which ones had sued me for divorce, and which i had sued. but julie didn’t mind. you see, she is thirty-six years old, and never has been married, and she made up her mind it wasn’t worth while to wait longer; and when women get that way, it’s no use opposing them.”
“the last time,” shouted cartouche, quite beside himself at the manager’s folly, for which he himself felt twinges of conscience, “the last time you said it was because she was a widow! duvernet, as sure as you are alive, you will bring yourself behind the bars of ste. pélagie.”
“if i do,” cried poor duvernet, stung by cartouche’s[pg 88] reproaches, “whose fault will it be? if you had kept an eye on julie campionet, this never would have happened. it was you who bought that cursed lottery ticket for fifi, and lost me the only leading lady i ever had who didn’t insist on marrying me against my will.”
here was a cud for cartouche to chew upon: young ladies reproaching him bitterly for giving them a hundred thousand francs in cash, and happy bridegrooms reviling him because through him they secured brides. cartouche was too stunned by it all to answer. the only thing he could do was to try to keep duvernet’s unfortunate weakness from landing him in jail. luckily, none of his wives had any use for duvernet, after a very short probation, and as he had no property to speak of, and the earnings of the imperial theater were uncertain, there was no money to be squeezed out of him. so, unless the authorities should get wind of duvernet’s matrimonial ventures, which he persisted in regarding as mere escapades, into which he was led by a stronger will than his own, he would be allowed to roam at large.
“at all events,” said cartouche, after a while, “i can make julie campionet behave herself as [pg 89]long as she is willing to stay here by threatening to lodge an information against both of you with the magistrate.”
“do,” anxiously urged duvernet. “i would not mind serving a short term in prison if julie gets troublesome. well, all men are fools where women are concerned.”
“no, they are not,” replied cartouche darkly; “there are a few bachelors left.”
“it is fate, destiny, what you will,” said the mournful bridegroom. “that woman, julie campionet—or duvernet she is now—meant to marry me from the start, just like the rest. oh, if only little fifi were here once more!”
if only little fifi were here once more! poor cartouche’s lonely heart echoed that wish.
