was a mirror in the window, and Cartouche stood and looked at himself in it. The mirror stiffened his resolution.
"No," he said. "Fifi must not throw herself away on such a looking fellow. I love her—I love her too well for that."
A church clock chimed six. Cartouche came out of his troubled day-dream with a start—he was already due at the theater. He ran as fast as his bad leg would allow him, and for the first time in the eight years he had been employed there, was late.
Duvernet, the manager, was walking the floor of his dingy little office and tearing his hair. He was dressed for the part of the Cid Campeador in the drama of the evening. Duvernet never made the mistake of acting a trivial part. He clattered about in a full suit of tin armor, but had inadvertently clapped his hat on his head. Although there was but little time to spare, the manager was obliged to pour out his woes to Cartouche.
"Julie Campionet saw Fifi return, with all her boxes," he groaned; "and—well, you know Julie Campionet—I have had the devil's own time the whole afternoon. Then Fifi marched herself over
