Two months passed. Another of Madame Valiere's teeth fell out. Madame
Depine's cheeks grew more pendulous. But their brown wigs remained as
fadeless as the cemetery flowers.
One day they passed the hairdresser's shop together. It was indeed
next to the tobacconist's, so not easy to avoid, whenever one wanted
a stamp or a postcard. In the window, amid pendent plaits of divers
hues, bloomed two wax busts of females--the one young and coquettish
and golden-haired, the other aristocratic in a distinguished grey wig.
Both wore diamond rosettes in their hair and ropes of pearls round
their necks. The old ladies' eyes met, then turned away.
"If one demanded the price!" said Madame Depine (who had already done
so twice).
"It is an idea!" agreed Madame Valiere.
"The day will come when one's nieces will be married."
"But scarcely when New Year's Day shall cease to be," the "Princess"
sighed.
"Still, one might win in the lottery!"
"Ah! true. Let us enter, then."
"One will be enough. You go." Madame Depine rather dreaded the
_coiffeur_, whom intercourse with jocose students had made severe.
But Madame Valiere shrank back shyly. "No, let us both go." She added,
with a smile to cover her timidity, "Two heads are better than one."
"You are right. He will name a lower price in the hope of two orders."
And, pushing the "Princess" before her like a turret of defence,
Madame Depine wheeled her into the ladies' department.
The _coiffeur_, who was washing the head of an American girl, looked
up ungraciously. As he perceived the outer circumference of Madame
Depine projecting on either side of her turret, he emitted a glacial
"_Bon jour, mesdames._"
"Those grey wigs--" faltered Madame Valiere
"I have already told your friend." He rubbed the American head
viciously.
Madame Depine coloured. "But--but we are two. Is there no reduction on
taking a quantity?"
"And why then? A wig is a wig. Twice a hundred francs are two hundred
francs."
"One hundred francs for a wig!" said Madame Valiere, paling. "I did
not pay that for the one I wear."
"I well believe it, madame. A grey wig is not a brown wig."
"But you just said a wig is a wig."
The _coiffeur_ gave angry rubs at the head, in time with his explosive
phrases. "You want real hair, I presume--and to your measure--and to
look natural--and _convenable_!" (Both old ladies shuddered at the
word.) "Of course, if you want it merely for private theatricals--"
"Private theatricals!" repeated Madame Depine, aghast.
"A _comedienne's_ wig I can sell you for a bagatelle. That passes at a
distance."
Madame Valiere ignored the suggestion. "But why should a grey wig cost
more than any other?"
The _coiffeur_ shrugged his shoulders. "Since there are less grey
hairs in the world--"
"_Comment!_" repeated Madame Valiere, in amazement.
"It stands to reason," said the _coiffeur_. "Since most persons do
not live to be old--or only live to be bald." He grew animated,
professorial almost, seeing the weight his words carried to unthinking
bosoms. "And since one must provide a fine hair-net for a groundwork,
to imitate the flesh-tint of the scalp, and since each hair of the
parting must be treated separately, and since the natural wave of the
hair must be reproduced, and since you will also need a block for it
to stand on at nights to guard its shape--"
"But since one has already blocks," interposed Madame Depine.
"But since a conscientious artist cannot trust another's block!
Represent to yourself also that the shape of the head does not remain
as fixed as the dome of the Invalides, and that--"
"_Eh bien_, we will think," interrupted Madame Valiere, with dignity.