Israel Zangwill

“ And so, when Madame Dépine received a sister-in-law from Tonnerre, or Madame Valière's nephew came up by the excursion train from that same quiet and incongruously christened townlet, the Parisian personage would receive the visitor in the darkest corner of the salon, with her back to the light, and a big bonnet on her head—an imposing figure repeated duskily in the gold mirrors. These visits, instead of a relief, became a terror. Even a provincial knows it is not convenable for an old woman to wear a brown wig. ”

“ 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 her ungainly cranium,
“Cest 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. ”

“ 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 glossy brown wig (which seemed propriety itself compared with the bald cranium) . ”

“ The long quasi-Lenten weeks went by, and unflinchingly the two old ladies pursued their pious quest of the grey wig. Butter had vanished from their bread, and beans from their coffee. Their morning brew was confected of charred crusts, and as they sipped it solemnly they exchanged the reflection that it was quite equal to the coffee at the crémerie. Positively one was safer drinking one's own messes. Figs, no longer posing as a pastime of the palate, were accepted seriously as pièces de résistance. The spring was still cold, yet fires could be left to die after breakfast. ”

“ No gradual approach of the grey, for the black had been equally artificial. The wig is the region without twilight. Only in the swart moustache had the grey crept on, so that perhaps the growing incongruity had necessitated the sudden surrender to age. ”

“ But the polygot 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. ”

“ Madame Dépine 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 Valière, paling. “1 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.) ”

“ So this was her reward for secretly instructing the coiffeur to make the “Princess's” wig first. The Princess, indeed! Ah, the adventuress! She felt choking; she shook her fist in the air. Not even the brooch to show when her family came up from Tonnerre, to say nothing of the wig. Was there a God in the world at all? Oh, Holy Mother! No wonder the trickstress would not be escorted to the station—she never went to the station. No wonder she would not sell the royal secrets to the journalist—there was none to sell. Oh! ”

“ 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!
On the average each speculated a full franc a week, with scarcely a gleam of encouragement. Two francs a week each—already the year becomes six months! For six months one can hold out. Hardships shared are halved, too. ”

“ 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. ”

“ No more lounging against the newel under the carved torch-bearer, while the journalist of the fourth floor spat at the Dreyfusites, and the poet of the entresol threw versified vitriol at perfidious Albion. For the first time, too—losing their channel of communication—they grew out of touch with each other's microscopic affairs, and their mutual detestation increased with their resentful ignorance. ”

“ The Church calendar, so richly dyed with figures of saints and martyrs, filled life with colour enough, and fast-days were almost as welcome as feast-days, for if the latter warmed the general air, the former cloaked economy with dignity. ”

“ 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. ”