"But the Holy Father hasn't seen me and my stiff leg yet."
"Oh," cried Fifi, "I am to take you out to Fontainebleau as soon as we are married."
"You are afraid to show me before we are married."
"Not in the least. I told the Holy Father that you were neither young nor handsome; for that matter, the Holy Father himself is neither young nor handsome. But I am glad you have at last agreed that we are to be married—not that it would make any difference."
"You have not married me yet," Cartouche weakly protested, gazing into the heaven of Fifi's eyes, while eating her delicious cabbage-soup.
"Have you no respect for the Holy Father?" asked Fifi, indignantly.
"Yes, but suppose the Holy Father to-day had advised you to marry some one—some one else—Louis Bourcet, for example."
"I shouldn't have paid the least attention to him; but it is your duty, Cartouche, when the Holy Father says you ought to marry me to do so without grumbling."
And with this masterly logic, Fifi helped herself to the last of the soup.
