The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

Madame Valiere shuddered unexpectedly. 'Let us not speak of it. Take a fig.'

But Madame Depine persisted-though she took the fig. 'Ah! those were brave days when we had still an Emperor and an Empress to drive to the Bois with their equipages and outriders. Ah, how pretty it was!'

'But the President has also'-a fit of coughing interrupted Madame Valiere-'has also outriders.'

'But he is so bourgeois-a mere man of the people,' said Madame Depine.

'They are the most decent sort of folk. But do you not feel cold? I will light a fire.' She bent towards the wood-box.

'No, no; do not trouble. I shall be going in a moment. I have a large fire blazing in my room.'

'Then suppose we go and sit there,' said poor Madame Valiere.

Poor Madame Depine was seized with a cough, more protracted than any of which she had complained.

'Provided it has not gone out in my absence,' she stammered at last. 'I will go first and see if it is in good trim.'

'No, no; it is not worth the trouble of moving.' And Madame Valiere drew her street-cloak closer round her slim form. 'But I have lived so long in Russia, I forget people call this cold.'

'Ah! the Princess travelled far?' said Madame Depine, eagerly.

'Too far,' replied Madame Valiere, with a flash of Gallic wit. 'But who has told you of the Princess?'

'Madame la Proprietaire, naturally.'

'She talks too much-she and her wig!'

'If only she didn't imagine herself a powdered marquise in it! To see her standing before the mirror in the salon!'

'The beautiful spectacle!' assented Madame Valiere.

'Ah! but I don't forget-if she does-that her mother wheeled a fruit-barrow through the streets of Tonnerre!'

'Ah! yes, I knew you were from Tonnerre-dear Tonnerre!'

'How did you know?'

'Naturally, Madame la Proprietaire.'

'The old gossip!' cried Madame Depine-'though not so old as she feigns. But did she tell you of her mother, too, and the fruit-barrow?'

'I knew her mother-une brave femme.'

'I do not say not,' said Madame Depine, a whit disconcerted. 'Nevertheless, when one's mother is a merchant of the four seasons-'

'Provided she sold fruit as good as this! Take another fig, I beg of you.'

'Thank you. These are indeed excellent,' said Madame Depine. 'She owed all her good fortune to a coup in the lottery.'

'Ah! the lottery!' Madame Valiere sighed. Before the eyes of both rose the vision of a lucky number and a grey wig.

VI.

The acquaintanceship ripened. It was not only their common grievances against fate and Madame la Proprietaire: they were linked by the sheer physical fact that each was the only person to whom the other could talk without the morbid consciousness of an eye scrutinising the unseemly brown wig. It became quite natural, therefore, for Madame Depine to stroll into her 'Princess's' room, and they soon slid into dividing the cost of the fire. That was more than an economy, for neither could afford a fire alone. It was an easy transition to the discovery that coffee could be made more cheaply for two, and that the same candle would light two persons, provided they sat in the same room. And if they did not fall out of the habit of companionship even at the cremerie, though 'two portions for one' were not served, their union at least kept the sexagenarians in countenance. Two brown wigs give each other a moral support, are on the way to a fashion.

But there was more than wigs and cheese-parings in their camaraderie. Madame Depine found a fathomless mine of edification in Madame Valiere's reminiscences, which she skilfully extracted from her, finding the average ore rich with noble streaks, though the old tirewoman had an obstinate way of harking back to her girlhood, which made some delvings result in mere earth.

On the Day of the Dead Madame Depine emerged into importance, taking her friend with her to the Cemetery Montparnasse to see the glass flowers blooming immortally over the graves of her husband and children. Madame Depine paid the omnibus for both (inside places), and felt, for once, superior to the poor 'Princess,' who had never known the realities of love and death.

VII.

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