‘Well,’ said he, ‘is it as bad as you feared?’
‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘if my hair goes on falling out as it now does, I shall be bald before we arrive at Toulon.’
He smiled and said: ‘Oh no! You have a great deal of hair. Many ladies have I seen, but never one with such abundance of hair as you.’
‘I am losing it fast.’
‘It will grow again. It is not as if you were very old.’
‘Very old!’ I exclaimed, ‘what is my age? What do you think it is? Tell me. I earnestly wish to guess.’ Then, observing a certain expression to enter his face, I added with vehemence: ‘Do not attempt to flatter me. Tell me exactly what you believe my age to be. Even out of that may come an idea to me.’
‘It would not be fair to you to guess,’ said the young man, with the little French smirk that had entered his face swiftly fading out of it; ‘look how your forehead is bound up! Figure yourself in good health—your face entirely visible—bien coiffée besides—but you ask me for the truth, and I will tell you what I suppose. You are, madame, about forty-five years old.’
‘It may be so,’ I answered, and my head sank, and for some moments my senses seemed to leave me, so benumbing was the bewilderment that possessed me as I tried to think, wondering why I could not remember my age, wondering why I could not remember my name, wondering whether the sable curtain before which the hand of calamity had placed me would ever rise.
‘The French,’ said Alphonse, ‘are hair-dressers in perfection. There is a hair-dresser of genius at Toulon. He is my friend. I will speak to him, and it will be strange if he does not possess the secret of preventing your hair from falling out.’ He closed his book and continued: ‘I believe you will not much longer require to wear that plaister, yet I would advise you to keep it on until you are able to consult a physician. A friend of mine at Toulon is an excellent doctor. I will speak to him about you. But how gloomy—how gloomy is this day! I hope there will not be a storm. Would you like to go on deck?’
I mounted the steps and looked about me. The scene of ocean was indeed a melancholy one. The sea was running in large heaps of ugly green, and there was not a breath of air to wrinkle the polished slopes. The sky was a wide and sullen shadow of grey, nowhere broken, and the sweeping folds of the water worked and throbbed all round the base of that mighty stretch of shadow as though they washed the foot of a vast circular wall. The vessel rolled from side to side, and at times her canvas slapped the mast with a noise like a sudden clap of thunder. At a distance lay a ship rigged as ours was. She had very little canvas set, but what she showed was white, and it glared out like the breaking head of a sea as she swayed her masts.