Pilar sighed, and gave up the struggle, and then received the jeweler, who had brought the newly-set ornament for the hair, a miracle of taste, delicate workmanship, and splendor.

In the afternoon Monsieur Martin, the prince of Paris hairdressers, arrived, to compose her a coiffure for the ball.  He was a little man, with a clean-shaven upper lip, and the mutton-chop whiskers of a solicitor.  He wore a long black coat, of severe cut, buttoned up to the top, and a ribbon in his buttonhole.  In his very pale cravat was a breastpin with a magnificent cat’s eye.  Patent leather boots and kid gloves completed the faultless attire of this gentleman, whom one would sooner have taken for a minister than a hairdresser.  A liveried servant followed him, carrying a silver-bound morocco box, which he took from him at the door of the boudoir, and placed with his own hands on the rosewood table.

After an extremely ceremonious greeting, he drew off his gloves, seated himself in an armchair by the fire, and made the countess describe what she was going to wear.  He listened with almost tragic attention, his forehead in his hand, his eyes closed.  After some reflection, he exclaimed: 

“Where is the diadem?”

Pilar placed it on the table in front of him.

He contemplated it earnestly, and then murmured: 

“Good, very good.  But now I must see the robe.”

“Monsieur Martin,” Pilar returned reproachfully, “don’t you know that my tailor respects himself far too much to send home one of his creations before the last moment?”

“It is always the same story,” he complained mournfully; “I am to arrange a coiffure for Madame la Comtesse, the coiffure is to harmonize with the whole, and I am not permitted to see the robe.”

“But I have given you the general idea of it.”

“General idea! general idea!  Does Madame la Comtesse think that that will suffice?”

“For an artist like you, Monsieur Martin—­”

“Oh, of course—­for an artist like me!  I can answer for myself, but how do I know if the tailor has caught madame’s style correctly?  I am perfectly competent to compose a coiffure which shall agree entirely with the type of Madame la Comtesse, but what if the tailor has been mistaken—­what if the robe turns out a disguise rather than an enhancement?  In that case, adieu to the harmony.”

Pilar reassured the sorely-tried master, and exchanged glances of amusement with Wilhelm.  She had described him to Wilhelm beforehand as a Parisian oddity, and invited him to be present during the visit.  While Anne enveloped her mistress in the white dressing-mantle, Monsieur Martin laid out the battery of combs, brushes, and tortoise-shell hair-pins provided by the maid, added, out of his own box, two hand-glasses, and a box of gold-powder, and began to loosen the countess’ abundant tresses.  As the golden waves flowed over the back of the chair to the ground, he murmured, drawing his fingers repeatedly through the silken mass: