"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 grand-*daughter 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
