"Yes," said Madame Valière.

They walked on.

The _coiffeur_ was at his door, sunning his aproned stomach, and
twisting his moustache as if it were a customer's. Emotion overcame
Madame Dépine at the sight of him. She pushed Madame Valière into the
tobacconist's instead.

"I have need of a stamp," she explained, and demanded one for five
centimes. She leaned over the counter babbling aimlessly to the
proprietor, postponing the great moment. Madame Valière lost the clue
to her movements, felt her suddenly as a stranger. But finally Madame
Dépine drew herself together and led the way into the _coiffeurs_. The
proprietor, who had reëntered his parlour, reëmerged gloomily.

Madame Valière took the word. "We are thinking of ordering a wig."

"Cash in advance, of course," said the _coiffeur_.

"_Comment!_" cried Madame Valière, indignantly. "You do not trust my
friend!"

"Madame Valière has moved in the best society," added Madame Dépine.

"But you cannot expect me to do two hundred francs of work and then be
left planted with the wigs!"

"But who said two hundred francs?" cried Madame Dépine. "It is only
one wig that we demand--to-day at least."