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 foot-*stool 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
