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.
