One morning Claude caught her standing in ecstasy before a
hair-dresser’s window in the Rue Saint Honoré. She was gazing at the
display of hair with an expression of intense envy. High up in the
window was a streaming cascade of long manes, soft wisps, loose
tresses, frizzy falls, undulating comb-curls, a perfect cataract of
silky and bristling hair, real and artificial, now in coils of a
flaming red, now in thick black crops, now in pale golden locks, and
even in snowy white ones for the coquette of sixty. In cardboard boxes
down below were cleverly arranged fringes, curling side-ringlets, and
carefully combed chignons glossy with pomade. And amidst this
framework, in a sort of shrine beneath the ravelled ends of the hanging
locks, there revolved the bust of a woman, arrayed in a wrapper of
cherry-coloured satin fastened between the breasts with a brass brooch.
The figure wore a lofty bridal coiffure picked out with sprigs of
orange blossom, and smiled with a dollish smile. Its eyes were pale
blue; its eyebrows were very stiff and of exaggerated length; and its
waxen cheeks and shoulders bore evident traces of the heat and smoke of
the gas. Cadine waited till the revolving figure again displayed its
smiling face, and as its profile showed more distinctly and it slowly
went round from left to right she felt perfectly happy. Claude,
however, was indignant, and, shaking Cadine, he asked her what she was
doing in front of “that abomination, that corpse-like hussy picked up
at the Morgue!” He flew into a temper with the “dummy’s” cadaverous
face and shoulders, that disfigurement of the beautiful, and remarked
that artists painted nothing but that unreal type of woman nowadays.
Cadine, however, remained unconvinced by his oratory, and considered
the lady extremely beautiful. Then, resisting the attempts of the
artist to drag her away by the arm, and scratching her black mop in
vexation, she pointed to an enormous ruddy tail, severed from the
quarters of some vigorous mare, and told him she would have liked to
have a crop of hair like that.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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