The shoe-maker involuntarily put up his hand to his head, but feeling no heat, he at once guessed what was the matter, and fell back into his chair, turning horribly pale. He had been so preoccupied during the last two days, that he had quite forgotten to take the same precaution he had done before visiting the owner of the mill, and had omitted to give his hair that particular twist whereby he was able to hide the hairs of which the black wolf had acquired the proprietorship under his others. Added to this, he had during this short period given vent to so many little wishes, one here, and one there, all more or less to the detriment of his neighbour, that the flame-coloured hairs had multiplied to an alarming extent, and at this moment, any one of them could vie in brilliancy with the light from the two wax candles which lit the room. “Well, you did give me a dreadful fright, Monsieur Magloire,” said Thibault, trying to conceal his agitation. “But, but ...” responded the Bailiff, still pointing with a certain remains of fear at Thibault’s flaming lock of hair. “That is nothing,” continued Thibault, “do not be uneasy about the unusual colour of some of my hair; it came from a fright my mother had with a pan of hot coals, that nearly set her hair on fire before I was born.” “But what is more strange still,” said Madame Suzanne, who had swallowed a whole glassful of water in the effort to control her laughter, “that I have remarked this dazzling peculiarity for the first time to-day.” “Ah! really!” said Thibault, scarcely knowing what to say in answer. “The other day,” continued Madame Suzanne, “it seemed to me that your hair was as black as my velvet mantle, and yet, believe me, I did not fail to study you most attentively, Monsieur Thibault.” This last sentence, reviving Thibault’s hopes, restored him once more to good humour. “Ah! Madame,” he replied, “you know the proverb: ‘Red hair, warm heart,’ and the other: ‘Some folks are like ill-made sabots,--smooth outside, but rough to wear?’” Madame Magloire made a face at this low proverb about wooden shoes, but, as was often the case with the Bailiff, he did not agree with his wife on this point. “My friend Thibault utters words of gold,” he said, “and I need not go far to be able to point the truth of his proverbs.... See for example, this soup we have here, which has nothing much in its appearance to commend it, but never have I found onion and bread fried in goose-fat more to my taste.”