out of sheer inability to keep quiet. As for Fifi, she turned two wide, innocent, frightened eyes on Cartouche, and stammered:
"Dear Cartouche—shall we really have a hundred—thousand—francs—of our own?"
"You will have it, Fifi," replied Cartouche, and thrusting the ticket in her nerveless hand, he forced her to stand up and show it, which Fifi did, then suddenly burst into a torrent of tears and a tempest of sobs.
Her youth, her beauty, her tears, her humility touched all hearts; and this time there was a roar of sympathy. Fifi's slight figure swayed and would have fallen but for Cartouche holding her up. It was buzzed about on all sides:
"Who is that tall, ugly fellow with her?" Some said her father, some her brother, but no one said he was her lover.
The formalities were simple and brief; the drawing would still take many hours; and Fifi, with her precious memorandum, duly signed and countersigned, to be presented at a certain bank, was once again in the street with Cartouche.
It was a bright, soft January day, the sun gilding the blue river, the quays and bridges, and lighting
