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 "I am as good as Cartouche," growled Duvernet, stung by this vicious attack on himself and his wife.

"Monsieur Duvernet," screamed Fifi, stamping her foot, "if you wish me to appear at the Imperial Theater a week from Thursday you will at once admit that Julie Campionet is good enough for you, and that I—I am far too good for you—but not too good for Cartouche."

Duvernet hesitated, but the manager in him came uppermost. He conceded all that Fifi claimed, but on returning to the theater cuffed the call-boy unmercifully by way of reprisal on somebody, after Fifi's exasperating behavior.

That night, at supper, Cartouche was oppressed and depressed by this new honor awaiting Fifi. Presently he said to her seriously:

"Fifi, it's out of the question—your marrying me. Why, you might marry an officer—who knows? Now, Fifi, don't be a fool and insist on marrying me."

"I won't be a fool," answered Fifi promptly, "and I will marry you. The Holy Father told me to, and I expect the Emperor will do the same. At all events, you, too, are to go to the Tuileries."