Marius, much flattered by this demand, advanced, leaving the head on which he was engaged.
“I am with you in a moment; I am just finishing. Pray have no uneasiness, my pupil will prepare you; I alone will decide the cut.”
Marius, a slim little man, his hair frizzed like that of Rubini, and jet black, dressed also in black, with long white cuffs, and the frill of his shirt adorned with a diamond, now saw Bixiou, to whom he bowed as to a power the equal of his own.
“That is only an ordinary head,” he said to Leon, pointing to the person on whom he was operating,—“a grocer, or something of that kind. But if we devoted ourselves to art only, we should lie in Bicetre, mad!” and he turned back with an inimitable gesture to his client, after saying to Regulus, “Prepare monsieur, he is evidently an artist.”
“A journalist,” said Bixiou.
Hearing that word, Marius gave two or three strokes of the comb to the ordinary head and flung himself upon Gazonal, taking Regulus by the arm at the instant that the pupil was about to begin the operation of the little scissors.
“I will take charge of monsieur. Look, monsieur,” he said to the grocer, “reflect yourself in the great mirror—if the mirror permits. Ossian!”
A lacquey entered, and took hold of the client to dress him.
“You pay at the desk, monsieur,” said Marius to the stupefied grocer, who was pulling out his purse.
“Is there any use, my dear fellow,” said Bixiou, “in going through this operation of the little scissors?”