“No head ever comes to me uncleansed,” replied the illustrious hair-dresser; “but for your sake, I will do that of monsieur myself, wholly. My pupils sketch out the scheme, or my strength would not hold out. Every one says as you do: ‘Dressed by Marius!’ Therefore, I can give only the finishing strokes. What journal is monsieur on?”
“If I were you, I should keep three or four Mariuses,” said Gazonal.
“Ah! monsieur, I see, is a feuilletonist,” said Marius. “Alas! in dressing heads which expose us to notice it is impossible. Excuse me!”
He left Gazonal to overlook Regulus, who was “preparing” a newly arrived head. Tapping his tongue against his palate, he made a disapproving noise, which may perhaps be written down as “titt, titt, titt.”
“There, there! good heavens! that cut is not square; your scissors are hacking it. Here! see there! Regulus, you are not clipping poodles; these are men—who have a character; if you continue to look at the ceiling instead of looking only between the glass and the head, you will dishonor my house.”
“You are stern, Monsieur Marius.”
“I owe them the secrets of my art.”
“Then it is an art?” said Gazonal.
Marius, affronted, looked at Gazonal in the glass, and stopped short, the scissors in one hand, the comb in the other.
“Monsieur, you speak like a—child! and yet, from your accent, I judge you are from the South, the birthplace of men of genius.”