“What a fleece, Madame la Comtesse!  It takes a Spaniard to have such hair.”

He now began rapidly and skillfully to comb, brush, coil, and fasten, to smooth away here, loosen there, shook the gold dust over it, touched the locks upon the forehead, placed the diadem, and fell back a step to review his work.  A groan burst from him.

“That is not it! that is not it!” he wailed, and shook his head dolefully from side to side.  “I am not permitted to see the costume of Madame la Comtesse, I am not to use pads or curling-irons, and yet all is to be in the grand style—­only a diadem—­not a flower, not a feather!  No, it will not do.”  He glared at her for a moment, and then cried suddenly, “No, it positively will not do!” And before Pilar could prevent him, he had rapidly pulled out all the hairpins, removed the diadem, and disarranged with nervous fingers the whole artistic edifice.

“A coiffure that bears my signature must not be allowed to leave my hands like that,” he said.  “And yet the ground is burning beneath my feet.  It is three o’clock, and I have not yet lunched.”

“Poor Monsieur Martin!” cried Pilar.  “Will you have something to eat at once?  They shall serve it to you downstairs.”

“Madame la Comtesse is very good, but I have no time to sit down comfortably at a table.  I have all that is necessary in my carriage, and shall take some slight refreshment there, on my way to my next client.”

“Have you much to do to-day?”

Monsieur Martin drew out a little notebook, with ivory tablets, and a silver monogram, and held it up before Pilar’s eyes.

“Eleven heads after that of Madame la Comtesse.”

“All for the embassy ball?”

“No, madame; I have another dance to-night in the Faubourg, and a betrothal party in the American colony.”

While speaking he had not remained idle.  The coiffure was being built up on a different plan, and this time Monsieur Martin appeared to be satisfied with his creation.  He walked all round the smiling countess, begged her to walk slowly up and down the room once or twice, touched up the front locks a little, and then the back, and finally ejaculated: 

“Charming!  Ravishing!  Our head will have a great success!”

He departed, after a ceremonious leave-taking.  At the door of the boudoir his servant again relieved him of his box, and carried it after him downstairs, and a few minutes later they heard his carriage drive away.

“You have not anything like that in Berlin yet,” said Pilar, laughing, when the solemn and important artist had left.

“I think not,” Wilhelm replied; “at least, not in the circles with which I am acquainted.  But I do not laugh at him—­on the contrary, I envy him.  He takes himself so seriously, and combs with his whole soul.  Happy man!”

It was about half-past ten when Pilar entered the red salon, in full ball dress.  Wilhelm was sitting by the fire reading.  She came up to him: