“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 Valiere.

“But whom else?” replied Madame Depine, impatiently, as she whipped off the “Princess’s” wig.  “If only it fits you, one can pardon him.  Let us see.  Stand still, ma chere,” 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 Depine 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 Valiere, with a sob in her voice.

Madame Depine 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 Valiere 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 voila,” 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 so easily to artistic treatment!”

“And when will my friend’s wig be ready?” said the “Princess.”

“Madame Valiere!  What are you saying there?  Monsieur will set to work when I bring him the fifty francs.”

“Mais non, madame.  I commence immediately.  In a week it shall be ready, and you shall only pay on delivery.”

“You are very good.  But I shall not need it yet—­not till the winter—­when the snows come,” said Madame Depine, vaguely. “Bon jour, monsieur;” and, thrusting the old wig on the new block, and both under her shawl, she dragged the “Princess” out of the shop.  Then, looking back through the door, “Do not lose the measurement, monsieur,” she cried.  “One of these days!”