“Hasn’t the wig-maker come?” asked Morgan.
In those days wig-makers were not yet called hair-dressers.
“Yes, citizen,” replied the waiter, “he came, but you had not yet returned, so he left word that he’d come back. Some one knocked just as you rang; it’s probably—”
“Here, here,” cried a voice on the stairs.
“Ah! bravo,” exclaimed Morgan. “Come in, Master Cadenette; you must make a sort of Adonis of me.”
“That won’t be difficult, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the wig-maker.
“Look here, look here; do you mean to compromise me, citizen Cadenette?”
“Monsieur le Baron, I entreat you, call me Cadenette; you’ll honor me by that proof of familiarity; but don’t call me citizen. Fie; that’s a revolutionary denomination! Even in the worst of the Terror I always called my wife Madame Cadenette. Now, excuse me for not waiting for you; but there’s a great ball in the Rue du Bac this evening, the ball of the Victims (the wig-maker emphasized this word). I should have thought that M. le Baron would be there.”
“Why,” cried Morgan, laughing; “so you are still a royalist, Cadenette?”
The wig-maker laid his hand tragically on his heart.