Duvernet's manner had undergone a complete change in the last half-hour, and he spoke to Fifi with an offhandedness which took no account of her ruffled feathers when he addressed her by her first name.
"Fifi," said Duvernet, "for it is all nonsense to call you Mademoiselle Chiaramonti now—Fifi, I say, I will give you fifty francs the week on the strength of having drawn the first prize in the lottery, of having given your fortune to the soldiers' orphans and of being thanked, as you will be, by the Emperor and Empress in person. It is a liberal offer. No other manager in Paris would do so well."
"And my art?" asked Fifi, grandly.
"Oh, yes, your art is well enough, as long as I have Cartouche to manage you. With the Pope's forty francs the week you will be the richest woman in our profession on the left bank of the Seine."
Fifi considered a while, walking briskly along. Ninety francs the week! What stupendous wealth! But it would never do to yield at once.
"And I am to have all of Julie Campionet's best parts? And you are to be on my side in all my quarrels with Julie?"
