And every year there is one stall at which a woman sells false hair by the pound. Hanging round like horses’ tails, side by side, these poor tresses, collected from the gutter and the hospital, produce a tragic effect. One anxiously wonders where all these dull-looking plaits come from; who will wear them next? One day I lingered about for some time, waiting to see if a customer would appear. At last a woman drew near.—Ageless, in mourning, basket in hand, unclassable; yet evidently not a happy woman. At first she dared not pause, then she regained courage. “How much is that?” “Five francs.” She hesitated for a moment. “It is too fair for me. Can you see what I want?” And she raised her veil from her face. At length she passed on without buying. There was nothing grey enough for her. The fair at Versailles is a provincial fair, a fair patronized by grandfathers and grandchildren, nursemaids and soldiers. The typical Parisian fair, the _chic_ fair, is held at Neuilly. In April, when the Avenue de Vincennes, the Boulevard [p052] Voltaire, and the Faubourg Saint Antoine are decorated with rows of white stalls, the cold winter wind still sweeps over the earth, rushes through the wide streets, carrying with it clouds of dust, blusters through the fair, filling the canvas of the booths like sails on the sea, powdering the gingerbread stalls as it passes; then in rough leaps, as though driven by a whip, forms dusty columns in the air, and rising several feet above the ground triumphantly waves the flags above the booths and roundabouts. [Illustration] It makes the evenings too chilly for sauntering about, hands in pocket, under the illuminations produced by the waving [p053] lanterns and the flickering gaslights! one feels too cold to care for amusement or refreshments. And therefore when after dinner the frequenters of the _cafés_ on the boulevards hail the club _coupés_, they never dream, as the door is closed on the still wintry toilettes of their companions, of saying to the coachman, “To the Fair du Trône.” [Illustration] They turn to the concerts and the circus. There is too much chilly darkness, too long a drive through the deserted boulevards, between the dinner and the suburban _fête_. The exhilaration produced by champagne and laughter would die on the way.