“Sit still, sit still, mademoiselle,” he cried. “Sapristi! I’ve been looking all over Paris for you. Allow me to introduce myself.”
Instead of a card he handed her a small bottle. It contained a pink liquid, and on its label she read wonderingly:
Bruneau’s Brilliant Balm.
“That’s it,” said the little man delightedly. “‘B.B.B.’ Hit ’em hard with the ‘B.’ I’m Bruneau. It’s my invention. The finest hair lotion in the world.”
“But I don’t want it,” protested Margot.
“No, but it wants you. I want you. Got to have you. I want you to advertise the Balm. Sit with your back to the window; hair down, all shining and brushed out. Bottles of the Balm arranged all about you. Crowds in front of the window all the time. My place is on the Rue de Rivoli. Come on, let’s come to terms.”
“But, I don’t want to do that.”
“My dear, there’s nothing to do. You just sit there from ten till twelve and from two till five. You can sew, you can read if you like. No one will see your face. You can forget there’s a crowd watching you. It’s a soft thing, and I’ll pay you better than if you were doing real work. Come now, twenty francs a day. You really have no right to refuse.”
“No,” she thought, “I have no right to refuse.” Then aloud, “Very well, I’ll try it.”
The following day she went to the hair-dresser’s shop and put herself in the delighted hands of Monsieur Bruneau. The little man considered himself an artist, as every man should, however humble his vocation. He arranged Margot’s hair with reverence, washing, perfuming, and brushing it until it was like a mantle of spun gold.