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
