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Updated: May 27, 2025
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.
"That will give thee an air." "But it is too valuable. Thou must not." They had never "thou'd" each other before, and this enhanced the tremulousness of the moment. "I do not give it thee," Madame Dépine laughed through her tears. "Au revoir, mon amie." "Adieu, ma chérie! I will tell my dear ones of my Paris comrade." And for the first time their lips met, and the brown wig brushed the grey.
The "Princess" might still arrive at midnight, though, and Madame Dépine lay down dressed in her bed, waiting for the familiar step in the corridor. About three o'clock she fell into a heavy doze, and woke in broad day. She jumped to her feet, her overwrought brain still heavy with the vapours of sleep, and threw open her door. "Ah! she has already taken in her boots," she thought confusedly.
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!
"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!"
But if ever Madame Dépine stumbled on Madame Valière buying a section of a billet at the lottery agent's, she insisted on having her own slice cut from another number. Fortune itself would be robbed of its sweet if the "Princess" should share it.
"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.
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.
On the Day of the Dead Madame Dépine 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. Two months passed. Another of Madame Valière's teeth fell out. Madame Dépine's cheeks grew more pendulous. But their brown wigs remained as fadeless as the cemetery flowers.
To both Madame Dépine and Madame Valière the grey wig came like a blow on the heart. It was a grisly embodiment of their secret griefs, a tantalising vision of the unattainable. To glide reputably into a grey wig had been for years their dearest desire.
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