They had not waited till the hundred francs were actually in the
stocking. The last few would accumulate while the wig was making. As
they sat at their joyous breakfast the next morning, ere starting for
the hairdresser's, the casement open to the October sunshine, Jacques
brought up a letter for Madame Valiere--an infrequent incident.
Both old women paled with instinctive distrust of life. And as the
"Princess" read her letter, all the sympathetic happiness died out of
her face.
"What is the matter, then?" breathed Madame Depine.
The "Princess" recovered herself. "Nothing, nothing. Only my nephew
who is marrying."
"Soon?"
"The middle of next month."
"Then you will need to give presents!"
"One gives a watch, a bagatelle, and then--there is time. It is
nothing. How good the coffee is this morning!"
They had not changed the name of the brew: it is not only in religious
evolutions that old names are a comfort.
They walked to the hairdresser's in silence. The triumphal procession
had become almost a dead march. Only once was the silence broken.
"I suppose they have invited you down for the wedding?" said Madame
Depine.
"Yes," said Madame Valiere.
They walked on.
The _coiffeur_ was at his door, sunning his aproned stomach, and
twisting his moustache as if it were a customer's. Emotion overcame
Madame Depine at the sight of him. She pushed Madame Valiere into the
tobacconist's instead.
"I have need of a stamp," she explained, and demanded one for five
centimes. She leaned over the counter babbling aimlessly to the
proprietor, postponing the great moment. Madame Valiere lost the clue
to her movements, felt her suddenly as a stranger. But finally Madame
Depine drew herself together and led the way into the _coiffeurs_. The
proprietor, who had reentered his parlour, reemerged gloomily.