The Grey Wig | Page 9

glossy brown wig (which seemed propriety itself
compared with the bald cranium).
"What an idea!" ejaculated Madame Valière. "To what end?"

"Since you are here," returned Madame Dépine, 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 Valière, 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 Valière
reminded him.
"He spoke of our old blocks," Madame Dépine 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 Dépine 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 Valière and Madame Dépine 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 Dépine recalled the gallant death
of her son, the chasseur.
The coiffeur saluted them amiably. Yes, mesdames, it was a beautiful
morning. The wig was quite ready. Behold it there--on its block.
Madame Valière's eyes turned thither, then grew clouded, and returned
to Madame Dépine's head and thence back to the Grey Wig.
"It is not this one?" she said dubiously.
"Mais, oui." Madame Dépine was nodding, a great smile transfiguring
the emaciated orb of her face. The artist's eyes twinkled.
"But this will not fit you," Madame Valière gasped.
"It is a little error, I know," replied Madame Dépine.
"But it is a great error," cried Madame Valière, 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 Valière.
"But whom else?" replied Madame Dépine, impatiently, as she
whipped off the "Princess's" wig. "If only it fits you, one can pardon
him. Let us see. Stand still, ma chère," 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 Dépine opened her eyes. "What wedding?"
"My nephew's, of course!"
"Your nephew is marrying? I congratulate you. But why did you not
tell me?"
"I did mention it. That day I had a letter!"
"Ah! I seem to remember. I had not thought of it." Then briskly: "Well,
that makes all for the best again. Ah! I was right not to scold monsieur
le coiffeur too much, was I not?"
"You are very good to be so patient," said Madame Valière, with a sob
in her voice.
Madame Dépine shot her a dignified glance. "We will discuss our
affairs at home. Here it only remains to say whether you are satisfied
with the fit."
Madame Valière patted the wig, as much in approbation as in
adjustment. "But it fits me to a miracle!"
"Then we will pay our friend, and wish him le bon jour." She produced
the fifty francs--two gold pieces, well sounding, for which she had
exchanged her silver and copper, and two five-franc pieces. "And
voilà," she added, putting down a franc for pourboire, "we are very
content with the artist."

The "Princess" stared at her, with a new admiration.
"Merci bien," said the coiffeur, fervently, as he counted the cash.
"Would that all customers' heads lent themselves