The Grey Wig | Page 8

purple and dripping diamonds, and on some of the trees was
the delicate green of a second blossoming, like hope in the heart of age.
They could scarcely refrain from betraying their exultation to the Hôtel
des Tourterelles, from which they had concealed their sufferings. But
the polyglot population seething round its malodorous stairs and
tortuous corridors remained ignorant that anything was passing in the
life of these faded old creatures, and even on the day of drawing lots for
the Wig the exuberant hotel retained its imperturbable activity.

Not that they really drew lots. That was a figure of speech, difficult to
translate into facts. They preferred to spin a coin. Madame Dépine was
to toss, the "Princess" to cry pile ou face. From the stocking Madame
Dépine drew, naturally enough, the solitary five-franc piece. It whirled
in the air; the "Princess" cried face. The puff-puff of the steam-tram
sounded like the panting of anxious Fate. The great coin fell, rolled,
balanced itself between two destinies, then subsided, pile upwards. The
poor "Princess's" face grew even longer; but for the life of her Madame
Dépine could not make her own face other than a round red glow, like
the sun in a fog. In fact, she looked so young at this supreme moment
that the brown wig quite became her.
"I congratulate you," said Madame Valière, after the steam-tram had
become a far-away rumble.
"Before next summer we shall have yours too," the winner reminded
her consolingly.

XI
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 Valière--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 Dépine.
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
Dépine.
"Yes," said Madame Valière.
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
Dépine at the sight of him. She pushed Madame Valière 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 Valière lost the clue
to her movements, felt her suddenly as a stranger. But finally Madame
Dépine drew herself together and led the way into the coiffeurs. The
proprietor, who had reëntered his parlour, reëmerged gloomily.
Madame Valière took the word. "We are thinking of ordering a wig."
"Cash in advance, of course," said the coiffeur.
"Comment!" cried Madame Valière, indignantly. "You do not trust my
friend!"
"Madame Valière has moved in the best society," added Madame
Dépine.

"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 Dépine. "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 Dépine. "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 Dépine. "I will bring
you the fifty francs immediately."
"Very well," he murmured. "Which of you?"
But Madame Valière was already affectionately untying Madame
Dépine'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 Dépine 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
Valière's eyes danced in sympathetic excitement.
"You may as well measure my friend too," remarked Madame Dépine,
as she reassumed her