The Grey Wig | Page 6

Valière, with dignity.

VIII
They walked slowly towards the Hôtel des Tourterelles.
"If one could share a wig!" Madame Dépine exclaimed suddenly.
"It is an idea," replied Madame Valière. And then each stared

involuntarily at the other's head. They had shared so many things that
this new possibility sounded like a discovery. Pleasing pictures flitted
before their eyes--the country cousin received (on a Box and Cox basis)
by a Parisian old gentlewoman sans peur and sans reproche; a day of
seclusion for each alternating with a day of ostentatious publicity.
But the light died out of their eyes, as Madame Dépine recognised that
the "Princess's" skull was hopelessly long, and Madame Valière
recognised that Madame Dépine's cranium was hopelessly round.
Decidedly either head would be a bad block for the other's wig to
repose on.
"It would be more sensible to acquire a wig together, and draw lots for
it," said Madame Dépine.
The "Princess's" eyes rekindled. "Yes, and then save up again to buy
the loser a wig."
"Parfaitement" said Madame Dépine. They had slid out of pretending
that they had large sums immediately available. Certain sums still
existed in vague stockings for dowries or presents, but these, of course,
could not be touched. For practical purposes it was understood that
neither had the advantage of the other, and that the few francs a month
by which Madame Dépine's income exceeded Madame Valière's were
neutralised by the superior rent she paid for her comparative immunity
from steam-trams. The accumulation of fifty francs apiece was thus a
limitless perspective.
They discussed their budget. It was really almost impossible to cut
down anything. By incredible economies they saw their way to saving a
franc a week each. But fifty weeks! A whole year, allowing for
sickness and other breakdowns! Who can do penance for a whole year?
They thought of moving to an even cheaper hotel; but then in the
course of years Madame Valière had fallen three weeks behind with the
rent, and Madame Dépine a fortnight, and these arrears would have to
be paid up. The first council ended in despair. But in the silence of the
night Madame Dépine had another inspiration. If one suppressed the
lottery for a season!

On the average each speculated a full franc a week, with scarcely a
gleam of encouragement. Two francs a week each--already the year
becomes six months! For six months one can hold out. Hardships
shared are halved, too. It will seem scarce three months. Ah, how good
are the blessed saints!
But over the morning coffee Madame Valière objected that they might
win the whole hundred francs in a week!
It was true; it was heartbreaking.
Madame Dépine made a reckless reference to her brooch, but the
Princess had a gesture of horror. "And wear your heart on your shawl
when your friends come?" she exclaimed poetically. "Sooner my watch
shall go, since that at least is hidden in my bosom!"
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Madame Dépine. "But if you sold the other
things hidden in your bosom!"
"How do you mean?"
"The Royal Secrets."
The "Princess" blushed. "What are you thinking of?"
"The journalist below us tells me that gossip about the great sells like
Easter buns."
"He is truly below us," said Madame Valière, witheringly. "What! sell
one's memories! No, no; it would not be convenable. There are even
people living--"
"But nobody would know," urged Madame Dépine.
"One must carry the head high, even if it is not grey."
It was almost a quarrel. Far below the steam-tram was puffing past. At
the window across the street a woman was beating her carpet with swift,
spasmodic thwacks, as one who knew the legal time was nearly up. In

the tragic silence which followed Madame Valière's rebuke, these
sounds acquired a curious intensity.
"I prefer to sacrifice the lottery rather than honour," she added, in more
conciliatory accents.

IX
The long quasi-Lenten weeks went by, and unflinchingly the two old
ladies pursued their pious quest of the grey wig. Butter had vanished
from their bread, and beans from their coffee. Their morning brew was
confected of charred crusts, and as they sipped it solemnly they
exchanged the reflection that it was quite equal to the coffee at the
crémerie. Positively one was safer drinking one's own messes. Figs, no
longer posing as a pastime of the palate, were accepted seriously as
pièces de résistance. The Spring was still cold, yet fires could be left to
die after breakfast. The chill had been taken off, and by mid-day the
sun was in its full power. Each sustained the other by a desperate
cheerfulness. When they took their morning walk in the Luxembourg
Gardens--what time the blue-aproned Jacques was polishing their
waxed floors with his legs for broom-handles--they went into