COURTSHIP AND CRIBBAGE
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 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. 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 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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 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.”
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.
“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 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 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 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 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.