cared where he was going except that he must fly from Fifi's witching eyes and tender words and sweet caresses. His heart was pounding so that he could fancy others heard it besides himself. This marriage was clearly impossible—it was not to be thought of. Fifi, in spite of her rashness and throwing away of her fortune, was no fool. She had not, as Cartouche feared, assumed a style of living that would have made a hundred thousand francs a mere bagatelle. What she had squandered, she had squandered deliberately for a purpose; what she had given had been given to a good cause, for Fifi, of all women, best knew her own mind. And to think that she should have taken up this strange notion to marry him—after she had seen something so far superior—so Cartouche thought. And what was to be done? If necessary, he would leave the Imperial Theater, and go far, far away; but what then would become of Fifi, alone and unprotected, rash and young and beautiful?
Turning these things over tumultuously in his mind, Cartouche found himself in front of the shop where he had bought Fifi the red cloak. There
