A PARCEL OF OLD SHOES
The day arrived when Fifi’s hundred thousand francs was to be paid
over to her and deposited in the bank. Fifi had taken for granted that
Cartouche would be with her on that momentous occasion; but when the
day came no Cartouche appeared, so she was forced to ask Madame Bourcet
and Louis Bourcet to attend her. This they both agreed to do, with the
utmost alacrity.
Fifi still remained perfectly and strangely docile, but her mind had
begun to work normally once more, and Fifi had a very strong little
mind, which could work with great vigor. She had the enormous advantage
of belonging to that class of persons who always know exactly what
they want, and what they do not want. She did not want to have her
money where she could not get it; and banks seemed to her mysterious
institutions which were designed to lock people’s money up and prevent
them from getting the benefit of it, but offered no security whatever
that somebody other than the owner should not get the benefit of it.
She had heretofore kept all her money--when she had any--sewed up in
her mattress, in a place where she could feel it, if she wished to; and
the mattress was perfectly safe; whereas, she had no guaranty that the
bank was.
So Fifi quietly but decisively made up her mind that she would get
hold of her hundred thousand francs and put it in a safe place--that
is to say, the mattress. It might not be difficult to manage. Madame
Bourcet told her she must take a tin box with her, and kindly provided
the box; but it was not impossible--Suppose, thought Fifi, she could
quietly transfer the money to a large reticule she possessed, and put
something, old shoes, for example, in the tin box she would deposit in
the bank? She had plenty of old shoes in her mysterious trunk. Fifi was
charmed with this notion.
On the morning of the great day she took the precaution to fill her
reticule with old shoes, fasten it to her belt, and it was so well
concealed by her flowing red cloak that nobody but herself knew she
had a reticule. Madame Bourcet, Louis and herself were to go in the
carriage of Madame Bourcet’s brother, a professor of mathematics, who
had married a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, and was held up
as a model of wisdom and a prodigy of virtue therefor.
The carriage arrived, and the party set out. Louis Bourcet regarded
Fifi with an eye of extreme favor. She had never asserted herself, or
contradicted any one, or said a dozen words consecutively, since she
had been with Madame Bourcet; and she had a hundred thousand francs of
her own.
Louis thought he could not have found a wife better suited to him if
she had been made to order. As she was the granddaughter to the Pope’s
cousin, her experiences in the street of the Black Cat were evenly
balanced by her other advantages.
As they jolted soberly along, Fifi’s mind was busy with her provident
scheme of guarding against banks. When they reached the bank--a large
and imposing establishment--they were ushered into a private room,
where sat several official-looking persons. A number of transfers were
made in writing, the money was produced, counted, and placed in Fifi’s
tin box.
This ended that part of the formalities. Then the box was to be sealed
up and placed in a strong box hired from the bank. Fifi herself
carried the tin box under her cloak, and, accompanied by Madame Bourcet
and Louis, went to another apartment in the bank, from which they were
taken to the strong room in the basement. There Fifi solemnly handed
over her tin box to be tied and sealed, and accepted a receipt for it;
and it was put away securely in a little dungeon of its own.
Never was a parcel of old shoes treated with greater respect, for in
it reposed the contents of Fifi’s reticule, while in the reticule
peacefully lay a hundred thousand francs. It had been done under the
noses of Madame Bourcet and Louis--and with the utmost neatness--for
Fifi was accustomed to acting, and was in no way discomposed by having
people about her, but was rather steadied and emboldened.
On the return home in the carriage Louis Bourcet treated her with such
distinguished consideration that he was really afraid his attentions,
including the numerous games of cribbage, were compromising, but Fifi
noted him not. Her mind was fixed on the contents of her reticule, and
the superior satisfaction it is to have one’s money safe in a mattress
where one can get at it, instead of being locked up in a bank where
everybody could get at it except one’s self.
That night, while Madame Bourcet snored and snoozed peacefully, Fifi,
by the light of a solitary candle, was down on her knees, sewing her
money up in the mattress. She made a hard little knob of it right in
the middle, so she could feel it every time she turned over in bed.
Then, climbing into bed, she slept the sleep of conscious innocence and
peace.
The next event in Fifi’s life was to be her presentation to the Holy
Father. For this Madame Bourcet severely coached Fifi. She was taught
how to walk, how to speak, how to curtsey, how to go in and how to
go out of the room on the great occasion. Fifi learned with her new
docility and obedience, but had a secret conviction that she would
forget it all as soon as the occasion came to use it.
A week or two after Fifi had rescued her money from the bank the day
arrived for her presentation to the Holy Father, who had personally
appointed the time. Since Fifi’s journey from Italy in her childhood,
she had never been so far from the street of the Black Cat as
Fontainebleau, and the length and expense of the journey impressed her
extremely. Louis Bourcet did not accompany Madame Bourcet and Fifi on
the visit, but it was understood that Madame Bourcet should present his
application for Fifi’s hand.
It was a soft, mild day in February, with a hint of spring in the air,
that they set forth in a rickety coach for Fontainebleau. Fifi wore
the hideous brown gown with the green spots in it, and felt exactly as
she did the night she played _Léontine_ in the blue silk robe with the
grease spot in the back. If the grease spot had been noticed everything
would have been ruined--and if the Holy Father should notice the brown
gown! Fifi felt that it would mean wholesale disaster. She comforted
herself, however, with the reflection that the Holy Father probably
knew nothing about ladies’ gowns; and then, she had never forgotten the
extreme kindness of the Holy Father’s eyes the night she peered at him
in the coach.
“And after all,” she thought, “although Cartouche laughed at me for
thinking the Holy Father had looked at me that night, I know he
did--perhaps I am like my father or my grandfather, and that was why
he looked.” And then she remembered what Cartouche had said about the
private soldiers not being afraid when the Emperor talked with them.
“It will be the same with the Holy Father,” she thought. “He is so far
above me--why, it would be ridiculous for me to be afraid of him.”
It took all of three hours to get to Fontainebleau, and Fifi felt
that the world was a very large place indeed. They drove through the
splendid park and dismounted before the great château. Then, Madame
Bourcet showing some cabalistic card or other token, it was understood
that the visit of the two ladies was expected by the Pope. They were
escorted up the great horseshoe stairs and into a small salon, where
luncheon was served to them, after their long drive. Madame Bourcet was
too elegant to eat much, but Fifi, whose appetite had been in abeyance
ever since she left the street of the Black Cat, revived, and she
devoured her share with a relish. It was the first time she had been
hungry since she had had enough to eat.
Presently a sour-looking ecclesiastic came to escort them to the
presence of the Holy Father. The ecclesiastic was clearly in a bad
humor. The Holy Father was always being appealed to by widows with
grievances, real or imaginary, young ladies who did not want to marry
the husbands selected for them, young men who had got themselves
in discredit with their families or superiors, and the Holy Father
had a way of treating these sinners as if they were not sinners at
all. Indeed, he often professed himself to be edified by their pious
repentance; and the ecclesiastic never quite understood whether the
Holy Father was quietly amusing himself at the expense of his household
or not. But one thing was certain to the ecclesiastic’s mind: the Holy
Father had not that horror of sinners which the world commonly has, and
was far too easy on them.
With these thoughts in mind, he introduced Madame Bourcet into the
Pope’s cabinet, while Fifi remained in the anteroom, guarded by another
ecclesiastic, who looked much more human than his colleague. This last
one thought it necessary to infuse courage into Fifi concerning the
coming interview, but to his amazement found Fifi not in the least
afraid.
“I don’t know why, Monsieur, I should be afraid,” she said. “A friend
of mine--Cartouche--says the private soldiers are not the least afraid
of the Emperor, and are perfectly at ease when he speaks to them,
while the councillors of state and the marshals and the great nobles
can not look him in the eye.”
“And may I ask who is this Cartouche, Mademoiselle?” asked the
ecclesiastic.
“He is a friend of mine,” replied Fifi warily.
At last, after twenty minutes, Madame Bourcet came out. She was pale
and agitated, but showed satisfaction in every feature.
“The Holy Father approves of my nephew, provided you have no objection
to him,” she whispered. And the next moment Fifi found herself alone
with the Holy Father.
Although the afternoon was mild and sunny, a large fire was burning on
the hearth, and close to it, in a large armchair, sat Pius the Seventh.
He gave Fifi the same impression of whiteness and benevolence he had
given her at that chance meeting three months before.
As Fifi entered she made a low bow--not the one that Madame Bourcet
had taught her, but a much better one, taught her by her own tender
little heart. And instantly, as before, there was an electric sympathy
established between the old man and the young girl, as the old and
young eyes exchanged confidences.
“My child,” were the Holy Father’s first words, in a voice singularly
young and sweet for an old man. “I have seen you before, and now I
know why it was that the sight of your eyes so moved me. You are my
Barnabas’ granddaughter.”
And then Fifi made one of the most outlandish speeches imaginable for a
young girl to make to the Supreme Pontiff. She said:
“Holy Father, as I looked into your eyes that night when your coach was
passing through the street of the Black Cat, I said to myself, ‘There
is an old man with a father’s heart,’ and I felt as if I had seen my
own father.”
And instead of meeting this speech with a look of cold reproof, the
Holy Father’s eyes grew moist, and he said:
“It was the cry of kindred between us. Now, sit near to me--not in that
armchair.”
“Here is a footstool,” cried Fifi, and drawing the footstool up to
the Holy Father’s knees, she seated herself with no more fear than
Cartouche had of his Emperor.
“Now, my child,” said the Holy Father, “the old must always be allowed
to tell their stories first,--the young have time to wait. I know that
you can not have seen your grandfather, or even remember your own
father, he died so young.”
“Yes, Holy Father, I was so little when he died.”
“I could have loved him as a son, if I had known him,” the Holy Father
continued, speaking softly as the old do of a bygone time. “But never
was any one so much a part of my heart as Barnabas was. We were born
within a month of each other, at Cesena, a little old town at the foot
of the Apennines. I think I never saw so pretty and pleasant an old
town as Cesena--so many fine young men and excellent maidens, such
venerable old people. One does not see such nowadays.”
Fifi said nothing, but she did not love the Holy Father less for this
simplicity of the old which is so like the simplicity of the young.
[Illustration--Fifi with the Holy Father]
“Barnabas and I grew up together in an old villa, all roses and
honeysuckles outside, all rats and mice within--but we did not mind
the rats and mice. When we grew out of our babyhood into two naughty,
troublesome boys, we thought it fine sport to hunt the poor rats and
torture them. I was worse in that respect than Barnabas, who was ever
a better boy than I. But we had other amusements than that. We loved to
climb into the blue hills about Cesena, and when we were old enough to
be trusted by ourselves we would sometimes spend days in those far-off
hills, with nothing but bread and cheese and wild grapes to live on.
We slept at night on the ground, rolled in our blankets. We were hardy
youngsters, and I never had sweeter sleep than in those summer nights
on the hard ground, with the kind stars keeping watch over us.”
Fifi said no word. The old man was living over again that sweet, young
time, and from it was borne the laughter, faint and afar off, the
smiles so softly tender, the tears robbed of all their saltness; he was
once more, in thought, a little boy with his little playmate on the
sunny slopes of the Apennines.
Presently he spoke again, looking into Fifi’s eyes, so like those of
the dead and gone comrade of the old Cesena days.
“Barnabas, although of better natural capacity than I, did not love
the labor of reading. He chose that I should read, and tell him what
I read; and so he knew all that I knew and more besides, being of
sharper and more observant mind. We never had a difference except
once. It was over a cherry tart--what little gluttons we were! When we
quarreled about the tart our mothers divided it, and for punishment
condemned us both to eat our share alone. And what do you think was the
result? Neither one of us would touch it--and then we cried and made up
our quarrel; it was our first and last, and we were but ten years old.”
Fifi listened with glowing eyes. These little stories of his youth,
long remembered, made Fifi feel as if the Holy Father were very human,
after all.
The old man paused, and his expressive eyes grew dreamy as he gazed
at Fifi. She brought back to him, as never before, the dead and gone
time: the still, ancient little town, lying as quietly in the sunlight
as in the moonlight, the peaceful life that flowed there so placidly
and innocently. He seemed to hear again the murmuring of the wind in
the fir trees of the old garden and the delicate cooing of the blue and
white pigeons in the orchard. Once more he inhaled the aromatic scent
of the burning pine cones, as Barnabas and himself, their two boyish
heads together, hung over the scanty fire in the great vaulted kitchen
of the old villa. All, all, were gone; the villa had fallen to decay;
the orchard and the garden were no more; only the solemn fir trees and
the dark blue peaks of the Apennines remained unchanged. And here was a
girl with the same eyes, dark, yet softly bright, of his playfellow and
more than brother of fifty years ago!
Fifi spoke no word. The only sound in the small, vaulted room was the
faint crackling of the burning logs, across which a brilliant bar of
sunlight had crept stealthily. As the Holy Father paused and looked at
Fifi, there was a gentle deprecation in his glance; he seemed to be
saying: “Bear with age a while, O glorious and pathetic youth! Let me
once more dream your dreams, and lay aside the burden of greatness.”
And the old man did not continue until he saw in Fifi’s eyes that she
was not wearied with him; then he spoke again.
“When we were ten years old we were taught to serve on the altar.
Barnabas served with such recollection, such beautiful precision, that
it was like prayer to see him. He was a handsome boy, and in his white
surplice and red cassock, his face glowing with the noble innocence
and simplicity of a good boyhood, he looked like a young archangel.”
“And yourself, Holy Father?” asked Fifi.
“Ah, I was very unlike Barnabas. I was but an ordinary-looking boy,
and I often fell asleep while I was sitting by the priest during the
sermon, and in full view of the congregation. We had a worthy old
priest, who would let me sleep during the sermon, but would pinch me
smartly to wake me up when it was over and it was time again to go on
the altar. So I devised a way to keep myself awake. I hid a picture
book in the sleeve of my cassock, and during the sermon, while the
priest who was on the altar had his eyes fixed on the one who was
preaching in the pulpit, I slipped out my picture book, and began to
look at it stealthily,--but not so stealthily that the priest did not
see me, and, quietly reaching over, took it out of my hand and put it
in the pocket of his cassock. I plotted revenge, however. Presently,
when the priest went up on the altar and is forbidden to leave it, he
turned and motioned to me for the water, which it was my duty to have
ready. I whispered to him, ‘Give me my picture book, and I will give
you the water.’ Of course, he had to give me the picture book, and
then I gave him the water. He did not tell my parents on me, wherein
he failed in his duty; but he gave me, after mass, a couple of sound
slaps--and I played no more tricks on him.”
“Holy Father, you must have been a flesh-and-blood boy,” said Fifi,
softly.
The Holy Father laughed--a fresh, youthful laugh, like his voice.
“Formerly I judged myself harshly. Now I know that, though I was not
a very good boy, I was not a bad boy. I was not so good a boy as
Barnabas. He had no vocation for the priesthood; but in my eighteenth
year the wish to be a priest awoke in me. And the hardest of all the
separations which my vocation entailed was the parting with Barnabas.
He went to Piacenza and became an advocate. He married and died within
a year, leaving a young widow and one child--your father. They were
well provided for, and the mother’s family took charge of the widow
and of the child. But the widow, too, soon died, and only your father
was left. I often wished to see him, and my heart yearned like a
father’s over him, but I was a poor parish priest, far away from him,
and could hear nothing from him. Then in the disorders that followed
the French Revolution one lost sight of all that one had ever known
and loved. I caused diligent inquiry to be made--I was a bishop then,
and could have helped Barnabas’ son--but I could not find a trace
of him. He, like Barnabas, had married and died young, leaving an
only child--yourself--and, I knew it not! The great whirlpool of the
Revolution seemed to swallow up everything. But on the night of my
arrival in Paris, as we passed slowly along that narrow street, and
I saw your face peering into my carriage, it was as if my Barnabas
had come back to me. You are more like him than I believed any child
could be like its father. So, when I heard, through the agency of the
Emperor, that a young relative of mine, by name Chiaramonti, was in
Paris, earning her living, I felt sure it was the young girl who looked
into my carriage that night.”
“But I am not earning my living now, Holy Father.”
“So I hear. You have had strange good fortune--good fortune in having
done honest work in your poverty, and good fortune in being under the
charge of the excellent and respectable Madame Bourcet, since there was
no need for you to work.”
“But--” Here Fifi paused and struggled for a moment with herself, then
burst out: “I was happier, far, when I was earning my living. The
theater was small, and ill lighted, and my wages were barely enough to
live upon, and I often was without a fire; but at least I had Cartouche
and Toto.”
“And who are Cartouche and Toto?” asked the Holy Father, mildly.
Then Fifi told the story of Cartouche; how brave he was at the bridge
of Lodi; how he had befriended her, and stood between her and harm;
and, strange to say, the Pope appeared not the least shocked at things
that would have paralyzed Madame Bourcet and Louis Bourcet. Fifi told
him all about the thirty francs she had saved up for the cloak, and
the spending it in buying Toto, and the Holy Father laughed outright.
He asked many questions about the theater, and the life of the people
there, and agreed with Fifi when she said sagely:
“Cartouche says there is not much more of virtue in one calling than
another, and that those people, like poor actors and actresses, who
live from hand to mouth, and can’t be very particular, are in the way
of doing more kindnesses for each other than people who lead more
regular lives. Cartouche, you know, Holy Father, is a plain, blunt man.”
“Like Mark Antony,” replied the Pope, smiling. Fifi had never heard of
such a person as Mark Antony, so very wisely held her peace.
“But this Cartouche seems to be an honest fellow,” added the Pope.
“Holy Father,” cried Fifi, earnestly, “Cartouche is as honest as you
are!”
“I should like to see him,” said the Holy Father, smiling at Fifi.
“If I could, I would make him come to you--but he will not even come
to see me,” said Fifi sadly. “Before he took me to Madame Bourcet’s
he told me I must leave my old life behind me. He said, ‘It will be
hard, Fifi, but it must be done resolutely.’ I said: ‘At least if I
see no one else of those people, whom I really love, now that I am
separated from them--except Julie Campionet’--I shall always hate Julie
Campionet--‘I shall see you.’ ‘No,’ said Cartouche, in an obstinate
voice that I knew well,--Cartouche is as obstinate as a donkey when
he wishes to be,--‘if you see me you will have a new struggle every
time we part. Years from now, when you are fixed in another life, when
you are suitably married, it will do you no harm to see me, but not
now,’--and actually, Holy Father, that mean, cruel, heartless Cartouche
has kept his word, and has not been near me, or even answered my
letters.”
“Cartouche is a sensible fellow,” said the Holy Father, under his
breath.
Luckily Fifi did not catch the words, or she would, in her own mind,
have stigmatized the Holy Father as also mean, cruel and heartless,
just like Cartouche.
“Very well,” said the Pope aloud, “tell me about Julie Campionet. Why
do you hate her?”
“Oh, Holy Father, Julie Campionet is a minx. She married the manager
against his will, and has stolen all my best parts, and has made
everybody at the theater forget there ever was a Mademoiselle Fifi. You
can’t imagine a person more evil than Julie Campionet.”
“Wicked, wicked Julie Campionet,” said the Holy Father softly; and Fifi
knew he was laughing at her. Then he grew serious and said: “My child,
it is important--nay, necessary--for you to be properly married. You
are too young, too friendless, too inexperienced, to be safe until you
have the protection of a good husband. Madame Bourcet has brought me
proofs of the worth and respectability of her nephew, Monsieur Louis
Bourcet, and, as the head of your family, I urge you to marry this
worthy young man.”
Fifi sat still, the dazed, submissive look coming back into her face.
Everything seemed to compel her to marry Louis Bourcet. As the Holy
Father had said, she must marry some one. She felt a sense of despair,
which involved resignation to her fate. The Holy Father looked at her
sharply, but said gently:
“Is there no one else?”
“No one, Holy Father,” replied Fifi.
There was no one but Cartouche; and Cartouche would neither see her
nor write to her, and besides had never spoken a word of love to her
in his life. If she had remained at the theater she could have made
Cartouche marry her; but now that was impossible. Fifi was finding
out some things in her new life which robbed her of one of her chief
weapons--ignorance of convention.
“And Monsieur Bourcet is worthy?” she heard the Holy Father saying, and
she replied mechanically:
“Quite worthy.”
“And you do not dislike him?”
“No,” said Fifi, after a moment’s pause. There was not enough in Louis
Bourcet to dislike.
Fifi rose. She could not bear any more on this subject. The Holy
Father, smiling at Fifi’s taking the initiative in closing the
interview, said to her:
“Then you agree to marry Louis Bourcet?”
“I agree to marry Louis Bourcet,” replied Fifi, in a voice that sounded
strange in her own ears. She did not know what else to say. Two
months ago she would have replied briskly, “No, indeed; I shall marry
Cartouche, and nobody but Cartouche.” Now, however, she seemed to be
under a spell. It appeared to be arranged for her that she should marry
Louis Bourcet, and Cartouche would not lift a finger to help her. And,
strangest of all, in saying she would marry Louis Bourcet she did not
really know whether she meant it or not. It was all an uneasy dream.
The Pope raised his hand to bless her. Fifi, looking at him, saw that
the stress of emotion at seeing her was great. The pallor of his face
had given place to a dull flush, and his uplifted hand trembled.
“You will come again, my child, when your future is settled?” he said.
“Yes, Holy Father,” replied Fifi, and sank on her knees to receive his
blessing.
As she walked toward the door, the Holy Father called to her:
“Remember that Julie Campionet, in spite of her crimes toward you, is
one of God’s children.”
Fifi literally ran out of the room. It seemed to her as if the Holy
Father were taking Julie Campionet’s part.