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Updated: June 3, 2025
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?"
Instead of keeping each other in countenance duoe contra mundum they might now have served as an advertisement for the coiffeur and the convenable. Before the grey wig after the grey wig.
She had no difficulty in finding his shop at the entrance to the Promenade du Gravier, with the lines in large gold letters, "Jasmin, Coiffeur" Miss Costello entered, and was welcomed by a smiling dark-eyed woman, who informed her that her husband was busy at that moment dressing a customer's hair, but begged that she would walk into his parlour at the back of the shop.
His smiling, dark-eyed wife, exhibits to the curious the tokens of her husband's acknowledged merit; and gold and jewels shine in the eyes of the astonished stranger, who, having heard his name, is led to stroll carelessly into the shop, attracted by a gorgeous blue cloth hung outside, on which he may have read the words, Jasmin, Coiffeur."
He gave himself up to her wise advice, and never had occasion to regret it. It was with her modest marriage-portion that he was enabled to establish himself as a master hairdresser. When he opened his shop, he set over the entrance door this sign: "L'Art embellit La Nature: Jasmin, Coiffeur des Jeunes Gens."
No! let us keep the Unseen or, if it must be discovered, let the key thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets. No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful.
We went always to the church at La Ferté for the fête of St. Cécile, as the Fanfare played in the church on that day. The Fanfare was a very important body. Nearly all the prominent citizens of La Ferté, who had any idea of music, were members the butcher, the baker, the coiffeur, etc. The Mayor was president and walked at the head of the procession when they filed into the church.
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.
The cry of the stage-manager, standing with his hand raised to his mouth to form a trumpet, at the foot of the staircase behind the scenes, echoes under the roof, rises and rolls along, to be lost in the depths of corridors full of the noise of doors banging, of hasty steps, of desperate calls to the coiffeur and the dressers; while there appear one by one on the landings of the various floors, slow and majestic, without moving their heads for fear of disturbing the least detail of their make-up, all the personages of the first act of Revolt, in elegant modern ball costumes, with the creaking of new shoes, the silken rustle of the trains, the jingling of rich bracelets pushed up the arm while gloves are being buttoned.
"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.
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