The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes Part 4

"Cash in advance, of course," said the _coiffeur_.

"_Comment!_" cried Madame Valiere, indignantly. "You do not trust my friend!"

"Madame Valiere has moved in the best society," added Madame Depine.

"But you cannot expect me to do two hundred francs of work and then be left planted with the wigs!"

"But who said two hundred francs?" cried Madame Depine. "It is only one wig that we demand--to-day at least."

He shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred francs, then."

"And why should we trust you with one hundred francs?" asked Madame Depine. "You might botch the work."

"Or fly to Italy," added the "Princess."

In the end it was agreed he should have fifty down and fifty on delivery.

"Measure us, while we are here," said Madame Depine. "I will bring you the fifty francs immediately."

"Very well," he murmured. "Which of you?"

But Madame Valiere was already affectionately untying Madame Depine's bonnet-strings. "It is for my friend," she cried. "And let it be as _chic_ and _convenable_ as possible!"

He bowed. "An artist remains always an artist."

Madame Depine removed her wig and exposed her poor old scalp, with its thin, forlorn wisps and patches of grey hair, grotesque, almost indecent, in its nudity. But the _coiffeur_ measured it in sublime seriousness, putting his tape this way and that way, while Madame Valiere's eyes danced in sympathetic excitement.

"You may as well measure my friend too," remarked Madame Depine, as she rea.s.sumed her glossy brown wig (which seemed propriety itself compared with the bald cranium).

"What an idea!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Madame Valiere. "To what end?"

"Since you are here," returned Madame Depine, indifferently. "You may as well leave your measurements. Then when you decide yourself--Is it not so, monsieur?"

The _coiffeur_, like a good man of business, eagerly endorsed the suggestion. "Perfectly, madame."

"But if one's head should change!" said Madame Valiere, trembling with excitement at the vivid imminence of the visioned wig.

"_Souvent femme varie_, madame," said the _coiffeur_. "But it is the inside, not the outside of the head."

"But you said one is not the dome of the Invalides," Madame Valiere reminded him.

"He spoke of our old blocks," Madame Depine intervened hastily. "At our age one changes no more."

Thus persuaded, the "Princess" in her turn denuded herself of her wealth of wig, and Madame Depine watched with unsmiling satisfaction the stretchings of tape across the ungainly cranium.

"_C'est bien_," she said. "I return with your fifty francs on the instant."

And having seen her "Princess" safely ensconced in the attic, she rifled the stocking, and returned to the _coiffeur_.

When she emerged from the shop, the vindictive endurance had vanished from her face, and in its place reigned an angelic exaltation.

XII

Eleven days later Madame Valiere and Madame Depine set out on the great expedition to the hairdresser's to try on the Wig. The "Princess's" excitement was no less tense than the fortunate winner's.

Neither had slept a wink the night before, but the November morning was keen and bright, and supplied an excellent tonic. They conversed with animation on the English in Egypt, and Madame Depine recalled the gallant death of her son, the _cha.s.seur_.

The _coiffeur_ saluted them amiably. Yes, mesdames, it was a beautiful morning. The wig was quite ready. Behold it there--on its block.

Madame Valiere's eyes turned thither, then grew clouded, and returned to Madame Depine's head and thence back to the Grey Wig.

"It is not this one?" she said dubiously.

"_Mais, oui_." Madame Depine was nodding, a great smile transfiguring the emaciated orb of her face. The artist's eyes twinkled.

"But this will not fit you," Madame Valiere gasped.

"It is a little error, I know," replied Madame Depine.

"But it is a great error," cried Madame Valiere, aghast. And her angry gaze transfixed the _coiffeur_.

"It is not his fault--I ought not to have let him measure you."

"Ha! Did I not tell you so?" Triumph softened her anger. "He has mixed up the two measurements!"

"Yes. I suspected as much when I went in to inquire the other day; but I was afraid to tell you, lest it shouldn't even fit _you_."

"Fit _me_!" breathed Madame Valiere.

"But whom else?" replied Madame Depine, impatiently, as she whipped off the "Princess's" wig. "If only it fits you, one can pardon him.

Let us see. Stand still, _ma chere_," and with shaking hands she seized the grey wig.

"But--but--" The "Princess" was gasping, coughing, her ridiculous scalp bare.

"But stand still, then! What is the matter? Are you a little infant?

Ah! that is better. Look at yourself, then, in the mirror. But it is perfect!" "A true Princess," she muttered beatifically to herself.

"Ah, how she will show up the fruit-vendor's daughter!"

As the "Princess" gazed at the majestic figure in the mirror, crowned with the dignity of age, two great tears trickled down her pendulous cheeks.

"I shall be able to go to the wedding," she murmured chokingly.

"The wedding!" Madame Depine opened her eyes. "What wedding?"

"My nephew's, of course!"