THE POPE WINS
Now, Fifi really intended to go out to Fontainebleau the next day to
see the Holy Father, for, although she cared little for the opinion of
the world in general, she had been deeply impressed by the benignant
old man, and she secretly yearned for his approval. And besides, she
had an instinctive feeling that the Holy Father would understand better
than any one else in the world why she wished to marry Cartouche. That
tender, serene soul of the old man, who cherished the affections of his
youth and who had sounded the depths and measured the heights of human
grandeur and yet esteemed love the greatest thing in the world, would
understand a simple, loving heart like Fifi’s. It had been so easy to
tell him all about Cartouche and herself--and he had comprehended it
so readily; just the same, thought Fifi, as if he himself had lived
and worked and struggled as she and Cartouche had lived and worked and
struggled. Fifi knew, in her own way, that there is a kinship among
all honest souls--and that thus the Holy Father was near of kin to
Cartouche.
Fifi did not mention this proposed expedition to Cartouche, because, in
her lexicon, it was always easier to justify a thing after it is done
than before.
So, when on the morning after her return, the diligence rumbled
past the street below that of the Black Cat, Fifi was inside the
diligence--and, on the outside, quite unknown to her, was Duvernet.
The manager, it may be imagined, had not had a very easy time of it,
either as a manager or a husband for the last twenty-four hours.
Julie Campionet had large lung power, and had used it cruelly on him.
Nevertheless, the idea of securing Fifi with all her additional values
for the Imperial Theater was quite irresistible to Duvernet; and the
thought that another manager, more enterprising than he, might get her
for ten francs more the week, was intolerable to him. He determined to
make a gigantic effort for Fifi’s services, and it would be extremely
desirable to him to have this crucial interview as far away from the
Imperial Theater as possible.
Therefore, Duvernet was on the lookout when the diligence jolted past,
and when he saw a demure figure in black, with a veil over her face,
get inside the diligence, he recognized Fifi, and jumped up on the
outside.
Fifi, sitting within, had no notion that Duvernet was on the same
vehicle. She kept her veil down and behaved with the greatest
propriety. She knew better than to wear any of her ridiculous finery in
the presence of the Holy Father, and as she had got rid of the brown
gown with the green spots, she wore a plain black gown and mantle which
became her well, and she scarcely seemed like the same creature who had
worn the yellow brocade robe and the striped satin cloak.
The diligence rumbled along, through the pleasant spring afternoon,
upon the sunny road to Fontainebleau, and reached it in a couple of
hours.
When Fifi dismounted, at the street leading to the palace, what was her
surprise to find that Duvernet dismounted too!
“I had business at Fontainebleau, and so was fortunate to find myself
on the top of the diligence, while you were inside,” was Duvernet’s
ready explanation of his presence.
Fifi was at heart glad of his protection, and hoped he would return to
Paris with her, but would by no means admit so much to him.
“I,” said Fifi, with dignity, “also have business at
Fontainebleau--with the Holy Father. You may walk with me to the
palace.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” answered Duvernet, bowing; and Fifi could
not tell whether he was laughing at her or not.
As they walked toward the vast old palace, gray and peaceful in the
golden sun of springtime, Duvernet said:
“Well, Fi--”
“What?” asked Fifi coldly.
“Mademoiselle, I should say. Since we find ourselves together, we may
as well resume our business conversation of yesterday afternoon. If you
will take fifty francs the week, your old place at the Imperial Theater
is open to you.”
“And that minx, Julie Campionet--oh, I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t mention it,” gloomily replied Julie Campionet’s husband. “She
has told me twenty times since yesterday that she means to get a
divorce, just like the others. If she doesn’t, I can, perhaps, get her
to take her old parts by giving her an additional five francs the
week--for I assure you, when it comes to a question of salary, she is
not Madame Duvernet, but Julie Campionet.”
“It would be against my conscience, Monsieur, to interfere with your
domestic peace--” said Fifi demurely, and that time it was Duvernet who
didn’t know whether or not Fifi was laughing at him.
“Mademoiselle,” replied he, with his loftiest air, “do you suppose I
would let my domestic peace stand before Art? No. A thousand times no!
Art is always first with me, and last. And besides, if Julie Campionet
should get a divorce from me--well, I have never found any trouble yet
in getting married. All the trouble came afterward.”
“Fifty francs,” mused Fifi; “and if I allow you to bill me as
Mademoiselle Chiaramonti, and the granddaughter of the Pope’s cousin,
that would be worth at least twenty-five francs the week more.
Seventy-five francs the week.”
“Good heavens, no!” shouted Duvernet. “The Holy Father himself wouldn’t
be worth seventy-five francs at the Imperial Theater! Sixty francs, at
the outside, and Julie Campionet to think it is fifty.”
[Illustration--Fifi and Duvernet at Fontainebleu]
“I had better wait until I am married to Cartouche,” replied Fifi
innocently.
But waiting was just what the manager did not want. So, still urging
her to take sixty francs, they reached the palace.
Fifi had a little note prepared and gave it, together with a pink
gilt-bordered card, inscribed “Mademoiselle Josephine Chiaramonti,”
to the porter at the door. The porter evidently regarded Fifi, and
her note and card included, with the utmost disfavor, but, like most
underlings, he was well acquainted with his master’s private affairs,
and knew in a minute who Fifi was, and so, grudgingly went off with her
letter and card.
Fifi and Duvernet kept up their argument in the great, gloomy anteroom
into which they were ushered. Fifi was saying:
“And if I allow you to bill me as his Holiness’ cousin, and you give me
seventy-five francs--”
“Sixty, Mademoiselle.”
“Seventy-five francs, will you promise always to take my part when I
quarrel with Julie Campionet?”
“Good God! What a proposition! I am married to Julie Campionet!”
“Have you really and actually straightened out your divorces from your
other three wives?” asked Fifi maliciously.
“N-n-not exactly. To tell you the truth, Fi--I mean, Mademoiselle--I
get those divorce suits and those leading ladies so mixed up in my
head, that I am not quite sure about anything concerning them. But if
you doubt that I am married to Julie Campionet, just listen to her when
she is giving me a wigging, and you will be convinced.”
“Of course,” continued Fifi, dismissing Duvernet and Julie Campionet
and their matrimonial complications with a wave of the hand, “it is not
really necessary for me to act at all. I have a fortune in my diamond
brooch, any time I choose to sell it. I gave away ninety thousand
francs--but in my brooch I hold on to enough to keep the wolf from
the door.” Then, a dazzling _coup_ coming into her head, she remarked
casually, “I hope Cartouche is not marrying me for my diamond brooch.”
Duvernet, a good deal exasperated by Fifi’s airs, replied, with a grin:
“Cartouche tells me he isn’t going to marry you at all.”
“We will see about that,” said Fifi, using the same enigmatic words
Cartouche had used, when the matrimonial proposition was first offered
for his consideration.
After a long wait the porter returned, accompanied by the same
sour-looking ecclesiastic whom Fifi had met on her previous visit; and
he escorted her to the door of the Pope’s chamber.
The door was opened for her, and Fifi found herself once more in the
presence of the Pope. She ran forward and kissed his hand, and the Holy
Father patted her hand kindly.
“Well, my child,” he said, “I hear strange things of you. The Bourcets
conveyed to me early this morning that you have left their house, given
up the marriage with the respectable young advocate, Louis Bourcet, and
bestowed all your fortune on charity. I have been anxious about you.”
“Pray don’t be so any more, Holy Father,” said Fifi, smiling brightly
and seating herself on a little chair the Holy Father motioned her to
take. “I never was so happy in my life as I am now. I hated the idea of
marrying Louis Bourcet.”
“Then you should not have agreed to marry him.”
“Oh, Holy Father, you can’t imagine how it dazes one to be suddenly
overwhelmed with riches, to be taken away from all one knows and
loves, to be compelled to be idle when one would work--to be, in
short, transplanted to another world. At first, I would have agreed to
anything.”
“I understand. Now, open your heart to me as to your father.”
“I was very wretched after I got the money. I was idle, I was unhappy,
I was unloved--and I had been used to being busy, to being happy,
to being loved. And what gave me the courage to rebel was, that I
found out I loved Cartouche. Holy Father, he is my only friend--” An
expression in the Holy Father’s eyes made Fifi quickly correct herself.
“_Was_ my only friend. And when I thought of being married, I could not
imagine life without Cartouche. So, I made up my mind to marry him. But
Cartouche said he was neither young nor rich, nor handsome, and with my
youth and newly-acquired fortune, I ought to marry above him. I do not
claim that Cartouche is what is called--a--” Fifi hesitated, the term
“brilliant marriage” not being known in the street of the Black Cat.
But the Holy Father suggested it with a smile--
“A brilliant marriage?”
“Yes, Holy Father, that is what I mean. But he is the best of men; I
shiver when I think what would have become of me without Cartouche. And
he is as brave as a lion--he was the first man across at the bridge
of Lodi--and the Emperor was the second. And he serves Duvernet, the
manager, just as faithfully as he served his country. Cartouche has
charge of all sorts of things at the theater, and he would die rather
than let any one swindle the manager.”
“I should like to have him for my majordomo,” said the Holy Father.
“He is not much of an actor though, to say nothing of his stiff leg.
Cartouche is an angel, Holy Father, but he can not act. So he does not
get much salary--only twenty-five francs the week. However, I know two
things: that Cartouche is the best of men, and that I love him with
all my heart. Holy Father, was not that reason enough for not marrying
Louis Bourcet?”
“Quite reason enough,” softly answered the Holy Father.
“After all, though, it was Louis Bourcet who got rid of me. It was
like this, Holy Father. I knew as long as I had a hundred thousand
francs that Louis Bourcet would marry me, no matter how outlandish
my behavior was; and I also knew, as long as I had a hundred thousand
francs, Cartouche never would marry me. And as I wanted to be happy, I
concluded to get rid of my hundred thousand francs, and that horrid,
pious, correct, stupid, pompous Louis Bourcet at the same time--”
And then Fifi burst into the whole story of her adventures, beginning
with her putting the box of old shoes in the bank, and sewing her money
up in the mattress. Through it all the Holy Father sat with his hand to
his lips and coughed occasionally.
Fifi knew how to tell her story, and gave very graphic pictures of her
life and adventures in the Rue de l’Echelle. She told it all, including
her return to the street of the Black Cat in the same van with her
boxes, her proposal of marriage to Cartouche and Toto’s share in the
proceedings. The Holy Father listened attentively, and after an extra
spell of coughing at the end, inquired gravely:
“And what did Cartouche say to your proposition to marry him?”
“Holy Father, he behaved horridly, and has not yet agreed, although
the poor fellow is eating his heart out for me. He says still, I am far
above him--for, you see, Holy Father, as soon as I have it published
that I am the giver of ninety thousand francs to the orphans’ fund,
all Paris will flock to see me act--and then--I shall be billed as
Mademoiselle Chiaramonti--cousin of the Holy Father, the Pope. That
alone is worth twenty-five francs the week extra.”
A crash resounded. The Holy Father’s footstool had tumbled over
noisily. The Holy Father himself was staring in consternation at Fifi.
“On the bills, did you say?”
“Yes, Holy Father. On the big red and blue posters all over the quarter
of Paris.”
“It must not be,” said the Holy Father, with a quiet firmness that
impressed Fifi very much. “How much did you say it was worth?”
“I say twenty-five francs. Duvernet, the manager, says only fifteen.”
“Where is this Duvernet?”
“Waiting for me in the anteroom below, Holy Father. He came out to
Fontainebleau to try to get me to make the arrangement at once.”
The Pope touched a bell at hand, and a servant appeared, who was
directed to bring Manager Duvernet to him at once. Then, turning to
Fifi, he said:
“Monsieur Duvernet must give up all ideas of this outrageous
playbill--and in consideration, I will secure to you an annuity of
twenty-five francs the week as long as you live.”
“How good it is of you, Holy Father!” cried Fifi. Then she added
dolefully: “But I am afraid if Cartouche knows I am to be as rich as
that, I shall have more trouble than ever getting him to marry me. What
shall I do, Holy Father, about telling him?”
The Pope reflected a moment or two.
“It is a difficult situation, but it must be managed,” he answered.
Then Fifi, eager for the Holy Father’s approval of Cartouche, told many
stories of his goodness to her in her childish days--and presently
Duvernet was announced.
Duvernet was an earnest worshiper of titles and power, but not to the
extent of forgetting his own advantage; and, although on greeting the
Pope he knelt reverently, he rose up with the fixed determination not
to do anything against the interests of the Imperial Theater, or its
manager, not if the Pope and all the College of Cardinals united in
asking him.
“Monsieur,” said the Holy Father, gently, but with authority: “This
young relative of mine tells me that her salary is to be increased
fifteen francs the week at your theater if her name and relationship
to me shall be exploited. I offer her twenty-five francs the week if
she will forego this. It does not appear to me to be proper that such
exploitation should take place.”
Duvernet bowed to the ground.
“Holy Father,” said he, with deepest humility, “it rests with
Mademoiselle Chiaramonti.” And he whispered to Fifi behind his hand,
“Thirty francs.”
“Thirty francs!” cried Fifi indignantly, “only just now you were
telling me that it was not even worth twenty-five francs!”
The Holy Father’s voice was heard--gentle as ever--
“Thirty-five francs.”
Duvernet, being found out, and seeing that he had the Supreme Pontiff
on the other side of the market, concluded it was no time for
diffidence, so he cried out boldly:
“Thirty-eight francs.”
There was a pause. Fifi looked toward the Holy Father.
“Forty francs,” said the Holy Father.
Duvernet, with the air and manner of a Roman senator acknowledging
defeat, bowed superbly and said:
“Your Holiness wins,” and backed toward the door.
Fifi turned to the Pope, and said with shining eyes:
“Holy Father, I thank you more than I can ever, ever say--I promise
never to do anything to dishonor the name I bear. And Duvernet,” she
added, turning to where the manager stood with folded arms and the
expression of a martyr: “Recollect, even if it is not put on the bill
that I am the granddaughter of the Holy Father’s cousin, that I am
still valuable. Did I not win the first prize in the lottery? And did I
not give ninety thousand francs to the soldiers’ orphans? And shan’t I
be thanked in person by the Emperor and Empress? Match me that if you
can. And besides, have I not the finest diamond brooch in Paris?”
“If it is diamond,” said Duvernet under his breath, but not so low
that the Holy Father did not hear him. However, without noticing this,
the Pope asked of him:
“Monsieur, will you kindly give me your opinion of Monsieur Cartouche,
whom my young relative wishes to marry?”
Duvernet paused a minute, trying to find words to express what he
thought of Cartouche, but in the end could only say:
“Your Holiness, Cartouche is--well, I could not conduct the Imperial
Theater without Cartouche. And he is the most honest and the most
industrious man I ever saw in my life.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. Good afternoon,” said the Pope, and Duvernet
vanished.
“My child,” said the Holy Father, after a little pause: “What is this
about your having the finest diamond brooch in Paris?” As he spoke, the
Holy Father’s face grew anxious. The possession of fine diamonds by a
girl of Fifi’s condition was a little disquieting to him.
“It is only paste, Holy Father,” replied Fifi, whipping the brooch
out of her pocket. “I always carry it with me to make believe it is
diamond, but it is no more diamond than my shoe. Duvernet thinks it
is diamond, and I encouraged him to think so, because I found that it
always overawed him. Whenever he grew presumptuous, all I had to do
was to put on this great dazzling brooch and a very grand air, and it
brought him down at once.”
“My child,” said the Holy Father--and stopped.
“I know what you would say, Holy Father--I am deceiving Duvernet--but
that is what is called in the world--diplomacy.”
With that she handed the brooch to the Holy Father. It was a brazen
imposture, and the Pope, who knew something about gems, could but smile
at the size and impudence of the alleged stones.
Then Fifi said timidly:
“Holy Father, how about Cartouche? I so much want to marry Cartouche!”
“Then,” said the Pope calmly, “you can not do better than marry
Cartouche, for I am sure he is an honest fellow, and loves you, and you
must bring him out to see me.”
“Oh, Holy Father,” cried Fifi joyfully, “when I bring Cartouche out
to see you, you will see what a _very_ honest, kind man he is! But
you must not expect to see a fine gentleman. My Cartouche has the
heart and the manners of a gentleman, but he has not the clothes of a
gentleman.” And to this, the Pope replied, smiling:
“The time has been when I was a poor parish priest, that I had not
the clothes of a gentleman, so I can feel for your Cartouche. So now,
farewell, and be a good child--and forty francs the week as long as you
are simply Mademoiselle Fifi. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Holy Father, and I can not thank you enough, and I am the
happiest creature in the world.”
And then Fifi fell on her knees, and received a tender blessing, and
went away, thinking with pride and joy of the visit she was to make
after she was married to Cartouche.
“I know the Holy Father will like him,” she thought, as she tripped
along the grand avenue toward the town. “The Holy Father is kind and
simple of heart, and honest and brave, and so is Cartouche, and each
will know this of the other, so how can they help being satisfied each
with the other?”
Thinking these thoughts she almost walked over Duvernet, who was
proceeding in the same direction. Duvernet’s manner had undergone a
complete change in the last half-hour, and he spoke to Fifi with an
offhandedness which took no account of her ruffled feathers when he
addressed her by her first name.
“Fifi,” said Duvernet, “for it is all nonsense to call you Mademoiselle
Chiaramonti now--Fifi, I say, I will give you fifty francs the week on
the strength of having drawn the first prize in the lottery, of having
given your fortune to the soldiers’ orphans and of being thanked, as
you will be, by the Emperor and Empress in person. It is a liberal
offer. No other manager in Paris would do so well.”
“And my art?” asked Fifi, grandly.
“Oh, yes, your art is well enough, as long as I have Cartouche to
manage you. With the Pope’s forty francs the week you will be the
richest woman in our profession on the left bank of the Seine.”
Fifi considered a while, walking briskly along. Ninety francs the week!
What stupendous wealth! But it would never do to yield at once.
“And I am to have all of Julie Campionet’s best parts? And you are to
be on my side in all my quarrels with Julie?”
“Certainly,” replied Duvernet. “You don’t suppose I would stand on a
little thing like that? Now, you had better take what I offer you, or
Julie will certainly spread the report that you wished to come back to
the Imperial Theater and I would not let you.”
“Bring the contract to me this evening,” replied Fifi.
“And to-morrow it is to be published in the newspapers?”
“Of course. In all the newspapers. But, Monsieur, there are some things
you must not expect of me now as formerly, such as constructing togas
for you out of my white petticoats, and making wigs for you out of tow.
I am above that now.”
“So I see--for the present--” replied Duvernet, laughing
disrespectfully, “but just let Julie Campionet try her hand at that
sort of thing in your place, and you would burst if you did not outdo
her. Come, here is the diligence. In with you.”
Fifi got back to her old quarters in time to prepare supper again for
Cartouche. This time they had cabbage-soup and a bit of sausage.
Poor Cartouche, who had alternated between heaven and hell ever since
Fifi’s return, was in heaven, sitting opposite to her at the rickety
table, and eating Fifi’s excellent cabbage-soup. She herself fully
appreciated their menu.
“When I was with the Bourcets I could not eat their tasteless messes,”
she cried. “No garlic, no cabbage, very few onions--and everything
sickly sweet. No, Cartouche, one must live as one has lived, and one
must have a husband who likes the same things one likes, so that is why
I am marrying you a week from Thursday.”
“Fifi,” said Cartouche, trying to be stern, “haven’t I told you to put
that silly idea out of your head?”
“Yes, but I haven’t though, and to-day I went to Fontainebleau to see
the Holy Father, and--now listen to reason, Cartouche--he told me to
marry you. Do you understand?”
This was the first Cartouche had heard of the visit to Fontainebleau.
Fifi described it glibly, and if she represented the Holy Father as
urging and commanding her marriage to Cartouche much more strongly than
was actually the case, it must be set down to her artistic instinct
which made her give the scene its full dramatic value. When she paused
for breath, Cartouche said, glumly:
“But the Holy Father hasn’t seen me and my stiff leg yet.”
“Oh,” cried Fifi, “I am to take you out to Fontainebleau as soon as we
are married.”
“You are afraid to show me before we are married.”
“Not in the least. I told the Holy Father that you were neither young
nor handsome; for that matter, the Holy Father himself is neither young
nor handsome. But I am glad you have at last agreed that we are to be
married--not that it would make any difference.”
“You have not married me yet,” Cartouche weakly protested, gazing into
the heaven of Fifi’s eyes, while eating her delicious cabbage-soup.
“Have you no respect for the Holy Father?” asked Fifi, indignantly.
“Yes, but suppose the Holy Father to-day had advised you to marry some
one--some one else--Louis Bourcet, for example.”
“I shouldn’t have paid the least attention to him; but it is your duty,
Cartouche, when the Holy Father says you ought to marry me to do so
without grumbling.”
And with this masterly logic, Fifi helped herself to the last of the
soup.