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 my chances with him. Cartouche, I am not joking—I can never joke any more. But I will not put up with your behavior. Do you understand me? It is Fifi who says this. You know, you always told me when I flew into a rage I could frighten Monsieur Duvernet. You remember, he often ran into his closet and locked the door when I was storming at him at the theater. I am much more angry now.

Fifi."

To this letter also Cartouche made no answer. He did not know the ways of ladies who had dowries of a hundred thousand francs. He had heard they were always supplied with husbands by some one duly empowered; and these decisions, he imagined, were like the laws of the Medes and Persians. He felt for his poor little Fifi; her vivid, incoherent words were perfectly intelligible to him and went like a knife into his heart. He mused over them in such poignant grief that he could hardly drag himself through his multitude of duties. He had no life or spirit to keep watch over Duvernet; and Julie Campionet, one fine morning, took advantage of this and, walking the manager off to the mairie, married him out of hand. The first