NUMBER 1313
It took Fifi a whole month to recover from the shock of delight which
she had experienced on the night she had acted before the Emperor.
Meanwhile, her little head became slightly turned, and she gave herself
airs of great haughtiness to Julie Campionet, and Moret, the leading
man, and even to Duvernet, the manager. Duvernet was one of those
unfortunates who are the victims of their own charms. He was reckoned
a handsome man, as beauty goes on the left bank of the Seine, and was
almost invincible with young ladies of the ballet, milliners’ girls
and the like. When convinced that a deserving young woman had fallen
in love with him, Duvernet felt sorry for her, and honestly tried, by
reciprocating her passion, to keep her from throwing herself in the
river.
By virtue of this amiable weakness, he had married in turn, as
Cartouche had said, three of his leading ladies, and was only safe from
Julie Campionet as long as Cartouche kept watch, like a wolf, over
the lady. Separations always followed fast on Duvernet’s marriages,
and his three wives were in such various stages of divorce, that, as
Cartouche said, Duvernet himself did not know exactly where he stood
matrimonially. Of one thing only was he sure: that Fifi did not harbor
designs upon him. And for this, and on account of her cleverness with
her needle, which enabled her to convert her white cotton petticoat
into a toga for the manager, in an emergency, Duvernet put up with her
airs and graces.
Fifi tried a few of these same airs and graces on Cartouche, but
Cartouche had the habit of command with her, and Fifi had the habit
of obedience with him; so these little experimental haughtinesses on
Fifi’s part soon collapsed. Every night, when the performance was over,
Cartouche would bring Fifi home, and after seeing that she was in her
own little garret, retired to his, which was at the head of the stairs,
and was the meanest and poorest of all the mean and poor rooms in the
mean and poor lodging-house. But it was respectable; and to Cartouche,
who had charged himself with the care of such a pair of sparkling dark
eyes as Fifi’s, and such a musical voice, and such a neat foot and
ankle as hers, this respectability was much.
If he had had his way Fifi would have been locked up in a convent and
only let out to be married to a person of the highest respectability.
But Fifi, in her own gay little obstinate head, by no means relished
schemes of this sort, and was fully determined on having both
flirtations and a husband, _malgré_ all Cartouche could say.
The curious part of it was she could not construct any plan of life
leaving out Cartouche. She had known him so long; he had carried her
many weary miles, in spite of his bad leg, in that journey so long ago,
when Fifi was but a mite of a child; he had often brought her a dinner
when she suspected he had none for himself; he had taught her all she
knew, and was always teaching her.
The men in the company often spoke roughly to the women in it, and
oftener still, were unduly familiar, but none of them ever spoke so
to her, chiefly because there was nothing the matter with Cartouche’s
brawny arms, as he had told the Emperor. And if the man Fifi married
did not treat her right, Cartouche, she knew, would beat him all to
rags; and how could she, husband or no husband, settle anything in
the world, from a new part in a play, to the way to make onion soup,
without consulting Cartouche? So the question of a husband was full of
complications for Fifi. At last, however, a brilliant solution burst
upon her mind: she would have a great many flirtations--and then she
would marry Cartouche!
Fifi was charmed with her own cleverness in devising this plan. It
occurred to her at the very moment that she was putting on her hat
with the black feathers to go out and buy herself a warm cloak. It was
Christmas Eve, late in the wintry afternoon, and she had time, before
she was due at the theater, to run around the corner to a shop where
she had seen a beautiful cloak for thirty francs. She had saved up
exactly thirty francs in the month since that stupendous evening when
she had seen both the Pope and the Emperor.
The bargain for the cloak was quite completed; both she and Cartouche
had examined it critically, had made the shopman take off a franc for
a solitary button which was not quite right, and nothing remained
but to pay over the thirty francs. It was a beautiful cloak, of a
rich, dark red, lined with flannel--there was one like it, lined with
cotton-backed satin, which Fifi longed for--but when she mentioned the
flannel lining of the first one to Cartouche, he had promptly vetoed
the cotton-backed satin.
Fifi set forth gaily, feeling warm in spite of her thin black silk
mantle.
It was near dusk and a great silver moon was smiling down at Fifi
from the dark blue heavens. The streets were crowded and there was as
much gaiety in them as in the finer faubourgs across the river. The
chestnut venders were out in force, and on nearly every corner one of
them had set up his temporary kitchen, whose ruddy glow lighted up the
clear-obscure of the evening.
Around these centers of light and warmth people were gathered, sniffing
the pungent odor of the roasting chestnuts, and spending five-centime
pieces with a splendid generosity. The street hawkers did a rushing
business; one could buy broken furniture, cheeses, toy balloons,
cheap bonbons and cakes tied with gay ribbons, within twenty feet of
anywhere. Three organ-grinders were going at the same time in front
of the brightly lighted shop where Fifi’s cloak was--for she already
reckoned it hers. But alas for Fifi! Directly in front of the shop
a crowd had collected around an Italian, who was exhibiting the most
entirely fascinating little black dog that Fifi had ever seen. He was
about as big as a good-sized rabbit, and was trimmed like a lion.
Around his neck was tied a card on which was written:
_Toto is my name, and I am a dog of the most aristocratic lineage in
France, and I can be bought for twenty francs. See me dance and you
will believe that I would be cheap at a hundred francs._
Fifi edged her way to where this angel of a dog was being shown by his
owner, the Italian, and opening her arms wide, cried out in Italian:
“Come here, my beauty. Come here, dear Toto.”
The dog ran to her, and placing his paws on her gown, gazed up into her
shining eyes with that look of confiding friendship which only a dog’s
eyes can express. Fifi bent down, and Toto, putting out a sharp little
red tongue, licked her delicate, cold cheek. Fifi was enraptured. Toto,
with all his beauty, high descent and accomplishments, was not puffed
up, but had a dog’s true heart.
Fifi and Toto became intimate at once, to the delight of the crowd,
as well as of Toto’s master. The Italian saw, in this evidence of
the dog’s gentle disposition, a better chance to sell him. A stout,
red-faced woman, showily dressed, immediately offered eighteen francs
for the dog. The Italian held out stoutly for twenty, and to clinch
the matter, brought out from his clothes somewhere a complete ballet
dancer’s outfit; and in the wink of an eye Toto was doing a beautiful
ballet, his skirts of pink spangled tulle waving up and down around his
slim, little black legs, a low-necked bodice showing a necklace around
his throat, earrings jangling in his ears, and his head affectedly
stuck on one side, while he ogled the gentlemen in true ballet-dancer’s
style.
Oh, it was delicious! Fifi almost wept with delight as Toto pirouetted,
his tulle skirts waving and his earrings tinkling musically. And when
at last he retired and sat down, fanning himself with his skirts,
Fifi’s heart, as well as her hard-earned money, was Toto’s.
The stout, red-faced woman was obviously impressed with Toto’s value,
for she immediately said to the Italian:
“Nineteen francs, Monsieur.”
The Italian shook his head; and then, scarcely knowing what she was
doing, Fifi cried out in her musical, high-pitched voice:
“Twenty francs! Oh, Toto, you are mine!”
And holding her arms open, Toto jumped into them and was cuddled to her
breast.
It was all over in a minute. The crowd had dispersed, and Fifi, with
Toto in her arms, and his ballet dress in her pocket, where now
only ten of her thirty francs reposed, was rather dumfounded at the
success of her sudden venture. The cloak, of course, was out of the
question--and what should she say to Cartouche? But the touch of Toto’s
little black paws gave her courage, and it was plain that her love for
him at first sight was reciprocated. So Fifi started back to her garret
with Toto, inventing on the way her replies to the wigging Cartouche
was sure to give her.
She had scarcely got Toto into her room, when a rap came at the door,
which Fifi recognized, and clapping Toto into the cupboard, she
prepared to face Cartouche.
“Well,” said Cartouche, walking in. “Where is the cloak?”
Fifi busied herself for a minute in lighting her one candle, before
she could summon up courage to answer, in a quavering voice:
“I did not get the cloak, Cartouche. That is, not to-day.”
“Why not?” demanded Cartouche.
“B-b-because I spent twenty francs of the money upon--upon something I
wanted more than the cloak.”
“What is it?” asked Cartouche in a tone that made little shivers run
down Fifi’s backbone. “More feathers? Or was it a fan to keep you cool,
when the snow is on the ground, instead of a cloak to keep you warm?”
“N-no. It was not a fan. And it is something to keep me warm, too, it
is as good as a stove, sometimes.”
“What is it?”
There was no mistaking the note in Cartouche’s voice. Fifi began:
“It is--don’t be angry, dear Cartouche--it is a little black--it is a
little black--it is something alive!”
“Is it a little black ostrich? Or is it a little black giraffe?”
Cartouche came toward Fifi then, looking exactly as he did the day he
caught her acting with the strolling players on the street.
“Oh, no, Cartouche. It is a little--a little--I would much rather have
him than a cloak. It is a dear little--”
But Toto himself revealed his species at that moment, by pushing the
cupboard door open; and bouncing out, he ran to Fifi’s protecting arms.
Cartouche was too much staggered to say a word, but Fifi, in the
terrible silence, said timidly:
“He can dance, Cartouche--and--and stand on his hind legs like a little
angel!”
“I see,” cried Cartouche, recovering his speech and uncorking his
wrath. “It is for a little black angel that can stand on his hind legs
that you have sacrificed the cloak!”
“Yes,” cried Fifi, likewise recovering her speech, now that the murder
was out. “Toto is worth a dozen cloaks to me, and he only cost twenty
francs. It is almost like buying a dear little child for twenty francs.
I shall love Toto so much and he will love me back--we shall love each
other better than anything in the world!”
Cartouche drew back a little as if he had received a blow. He remained
silent--so silent that Fifi was a little scared.
“You should see him dance,” she said; and slipping Toto’s ballet
costume on him, she began to sing in a very lively manner:
_Le petit mousse noir._
Toto, evidently thinking that he was meant by the black cabin-boy of
whom the song treats, made his stage bow, and began his ballet dancing.
And as it went on, Cartouche, in spite of himself, began to laugh. That
was Fifi’s triumph--and springing up, she, too, began to dance as well
as sing.
She was only a half-starved little actress on twenty-five francs the
week. She had no friend in the world but Cartouche, who was as poor as
she was, but her heart was light, and her fresh young voice caroled
merrily in the cold, bare little room. Cartouche sat, looking at her,
and trying to frown; but it was in vain. He knew nothing of that
newly-formed resolve in Fifi’s mind, to have a great many flirtations
and then to marry him; and then, a vast, a stupendous sacrifice came
into his mind by which he could still get Fifi a cloak.
He had ten francs of his own, and there was the tortoise-shell
snuff-box the Emperor had given him. Cartouche himself would have
starved and frozen rather than take it to the pawnshop--but Fifi’s cold
and hunger was something else. There was no struggle in making the
resolve, sacrifice for Fifi was no sacrifice to Cartouche, but there
was a moment of sharp regret--a feeling that the only treasure among
his poor possessions was about to be torn from him. Presently he said
gently:
“Fifi, I have two bundles of fagots in my room and a sausage, and I
will get a bottle of wine, and after the performance to-night, we will
have a little supper here. And I will forgive you for buying Toto.”
“That will be best of all,” cried Fifi, remembering that in the end she
meant to marry Cartouche.
Cartouche went out, leaving Fifi alone, for half an hour of rapture
with Toto, before it was time to go to the theater. He climbed up to
his garret under the roof, and taking his cherished snuff-box from his
breast where he always carried it, looked at it as a mother looks her
last on her dead child; and then, going quickly downstairs again into
the street, he made for a pawnshop close by, with which he was well
acquainted.
Just as he turned the corner of the street of the Black Cat, he almost
ran into Duvernet’s arms.
“Hey, Cartouche, you are the very man I want to see,” cried the
manager, buttonholing him. And then, noting that several persons on
the street stopped and looked at him, Duvernet swelled out his chest
and assumed an attitude in which he very much admired himself in his
favorite part of the Roman senator.
Duvernet continued in a very impressive manner: “I contemplate both
raising your salary, Cartouche, and also making you a little gift.
You have worked hard for me; you got the Emperor to the theater, and
business has been remarkably good ever since, and you have kept Julie
Campionet from marrying me--so far, that is--and I feel the obligation,
I assure you. So your salary after this will be twenty-five francs the
week, and here are three ten-franc pieces which I beg you will accept.”
With the air of a Roman emperor bestowing a province upon a faithful
proconsul, Duvernet thrust the thirty francs into Cartouche’s hand.
Cartouche, thoroughly dazed, mumbled something meant for thanks as he
accepted the three ten-franc pieces. Duvernet, suddenly dropping his
majestic manner, said, in Cartouche’s ear:
“And remember, you have got to keep Julie Campionet from marrying me. I
don’t like the look in her eye--she shows she is bent on it--and stop
Fifi from reminding me of that infernal white petticoat she gave me.”
Cartouche nodded, and Duvernet, resuming his air of benignant
magnificence, stalked off, happy. At least six persons had seen him
make this princely present. His heart was good, although his head was
indifferent, and he was sincerely glad to be able to reward Cartouche
for his faithfulness.
In a minute or two Cartouche came to himself, and tore along the
street, as fast as his stiff leg would allow, to the cloak shop, where,
in two seconds, he had paid the money for the beautiful cloak, and had
it wrapped in a bundle under his arm. How happy was Cartouche then!
He still had his ten francs, and he determined to make a little
Christmas feast for Fifi. So he bought a jar of cabbage-soup, and a
little bag of onions, and some chocolate. Then he went into a wine
shop for a bottle of wine.
The wine shop was a cheerful, dirty, agreeable place that he knew well.
When he entered he found the shop full of men, standing around a table
on which was a blindfolded boy with a hat full of slips of paper in his
hand.
A shout greeted Cartouche’s arrival.
“You are just in time, Monsieur Cartouche,” cried the proprietor, a
jolly red-faced man. “You make the last and twenty-fifth man necessary
to join our lottery. I have bought a ticket in the Grand Imperial
Lottery, which is to be drawn in a fortnight, and for every bottle of
wine I sell, and a franc extra, I give my customers a chance in the
lottery ticket, limiting it to twenty-five chances. Come now--I see
good luck written all over you--hand me your franc.”
Cartouche handed out his franc, bought his bottle of wine, and joined
the circle at the table. The little boy handed the hat around, and
every man took a slip out and read thereon a number. Cartouche took his
slip and read out:
“Number 1313!”
A roar of laughter greeted this, but when it subsided, the proprietor
advanced, and handing Cartouche a blue lottery ticket, said gravely:
“You have won, Monsieur Cartouche, in our lottery, and I hope you will
win in the Imperial Lottery. The number of the ticket I offer you is
1313.”
There was another shout of derision, and several of the disappointed
ones commiserated with Cartouche on the load of ill luck he was
carrying off with him in number 1313, but Cartouche stoutly maintained
that there was nothing to be afraid of, and hurried back to the street
of the Black Cat.
There was just time for him to get to the theater and dress. The people
came pouring into the house, and the box office took in the enormous
sum of two hundred and ninety-eight francs. It was again Duvernet’s
Roman tragedy, and it went finely. Fifi again acted as if inspired,
and received any number of recalls, besides a wreath of holly, with
an imitation silver buckle in it, handed over the footlights from an
unknown admirer.
During the waits between the acts she told her fellow actors of Toto’s
charms and accomplishments, so that the other women, some of whom
possessed nothing more interesting than babies, were furiously jealous.
But at last the play was over, and Fifi and Cartouche were in Fifi’s
garret, with a good fire in the stove, made with Cartouche’s fagots,
the cabbage-soup, the onions, the wine, and the sausage, and the
chocolate on the table, and Toto to make the trio complete. Cartouche
had sneaked the cloak in, without Fifi’s seeing it, and just as they
were sitting down to the table he said carelessly, as if thirty-franc
cloaks were the most ordinary incidents in life:
“Fifi, if you will open that bundle on the chair, you will find a
little gift from me.”
Fifi ran and tore the parcel open, and there was the beautiful, warm,
crimson cloak. She flew to Cartouche, and with dewy eyes, although her
lips were smiling, gave him one of those hearty kisses she had given
him when she was a little, black-eyed damsel ten years old. Cartouche
did not return the kiss, but sat, first pale and then red, and with
such a strange look on his face that Fifi was puzzled.
“Never mind,” she said to herself. “The next time it will be he who
kisses me--not I who kiss him.”
But nothing could spoil the joy over the new cloak.
“To think that I should have the red cloak and Toto, too! Oh, it is too
much!” cried Fifi.
“Quite too much--too much by way of a dog,” remarked Cartouche; but
as Toto at that moment jumped from his chair at the table on to
Cartouche’s knee, it became impossible not to be friendly with the
little rogue, and perfect harmony reigned among the three friends.
Cartouche and Fifi were among the poorest people in Paris; they worked
hard for a very little money; the room was small and bare, and although
Fifi had now a cloak for the winter, she would have been better off for
some warm stockings, and Cartouche for some flannel shirts.
Nevertheless, they were as happy as the birds in spring. They ate, they
drank, they laughed, they sang. Fifi dressed Toto up in his ballet
costume, and together they did a beautiful _ballet divertissement_
for Cartouche, which he liberally applauded. He told Fifi of his
twenty-five francs a week, as well as Duvernet’s present, and Fifi
concluded that he would be a desirable _parti_ for his money as well
as for his solid virtues, and determined to propose to him before
another year should pass.
Cartouche had forgotten about the lottery ticket, but just as he was
leaving, he remembered it and handed it to Fifi. At the sight of the
numbers on it, Fifi shrieked:
“Take it away! Take it away! It will bring bad luck! Take it away!”
“I won’t,” replied Cartouche, “and do you, Fifi, take care of it. You
may draw the hundred-thousand-franc prize in the lottery yet. Just
as likely as not the prizes are put on the numbers that nobody would
choose.”
This somewhat reconciled Fifi to the danger of keeping number 1313; so
she reluctantly put it away in the box where she kept her treasure of a
paste brooch, remarking meanwhile:
“If it draws the hundred-thousand-franc prize, I will marry you,
Cartouche.”
Again Cartouche turned red and pale. These jokes which seemed to amuse
Fifi so much, cut him to the quick. He only growled:
“About as much chance of one as of the other.”
And then a great melodious deep-toned bell in a neighboring church
began its chiming, solemn and glorious, proclaiming that Christmas Day
was at hand, and Fifi, falling on her knees, as her mother had taught
her long years ago, in Italy, thanked God for giving her Cartouche, and
Toto, and the red cloak lined with flannel.
She forgot all about the lottery ticket.