"I wished to have some of my hair worked up for my new angel, and I
went to a skilled artist who at that time dwelt in the Rue Boucher.
The man had a monopoly of capillary keepsakes, and I mention his
address for the benefit of those who have not much hair; he has plenty
of every kind and every color. After I had explained my order, he
showed me his work. I then saw achievements of patience surpassing
those which the story books ascribe to fairies, or which are executed
by prisoners. He brought me up to date as to the caprices and fashions
governing the use of hair. 'For the last year,' said he, 'there has
been a rage for marking linen with hair; happily I had a fine
collection of hair and skilled needlewomen,'--on hearing this a
suspicion flashed upon me; I took out my handkerchief and said, 'So
this was done in your shop, with false hair?'--He looked at the
handkerchief, and said, 'Ay! that lady was very particular, she
insisted on verifying the tint of the hair. My wife herself marked
those handkerchiefs. You have there, sir, one of the finest pieces of
work we have ever executed.' Before this last ray of light I might
have believed something--might have taken a woman's word. I left the
shop still having faith in pleasure, but where love was concerned I
was as atheistical as a mathematician.

"Two months later I was sitting by the side of the ethereal being in
her boudoir, on her sofa; I was holding one of her hands--they were
very beautiful--and we scaled the Alps of sentiment, culling their
sweetest flowers, and pulling off the daisy-petals; there is always a
moment when one pulls daisies to pieces, even if it is in a
drawing-room and there are no daisies. At the intensest moment of
tenderness, and when we are most in love, love is so well aware of its
own short duration that we are irresistibly urged to ask, 'Do you love
me? Will you love me always?' I seized the elegiac moment, so warm, so