knowing what she was doing, Fifi cried out in her musical, high-pitched voice:
"Twenty francs! Oh, Toto, you are mine!"
And holding her arms open, Toto jumped into them and was cuddled to her breast.
It was all over in a minute. The crowd had dispersed, and Fifi, with Toto in her arms, and his ballet dress in her pocket, where now only ten of her thirty francs reposed, was rather dumfounded at the success of her sudden venture. The cloak, of course, was out of the question—and what should she say to Cartouche? But the touch of Toto's little black paws gave her courage, and it was plain that her love for him at first sight was reciprocated. So Fifi started back to her garret with Toto, inventing on the way her replies to the wigging Cartouche was sure to give her.
She had scarcely got Toto into her room, when a rap came at the door, which Fifi recognized, and clapping Toto into the cupboard, she prepared to face Cartouche.
"Well," said Cartouche, walking in. "Where is the cloak?"
Fifi busied herself for a minute in lighting her
