He shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred francs, then."

"And why should we trust you with one hundred francs?" asked Madame
Dépine. "You might botch the work."

"Or fly to Italy," added the "Princess."

In the end it was agreed he should have fifty down and fifty on
delivery.

"Measure us, while we are here," said Madame Dépine. "I will bring you
the fifty francs immediately."

"Very well," he murmured. "Which of you?"

But Madame Valière was already affectionately untying Madame Dépine's
bonnet-strings. "It is for my friend," she cried. "And let it be as
_chic_ and _convenable_ as possible!"

He bowed. "An artist remains always an artist."

Madame Dépine removed her wig and exposed her poor old scalp, with
its thin, forlorn wisps and patches of grey hair, grotesque, almost
indecent, in its nudity. But the _coiffeur_ measured it in sublime
seriousness, putting his tape this way and that way, while Madame
Valière's eyes danced in sympathetic excitement.

"You may as well measure my friend too," remarked Madame Dépine, as
she reassumed her glossy brown wig (which seemed propriety itself