Unconscious Comedians

“No, no,” said Bixiou, “I want money in hand, and I must get those notes of Ravenouillet’s cashed.”

“Ravenouillet is sound,” said Vauvinet. “He puts money into the savings-bank; he is good security.”

“Better than you,” interposed Leon, “for HE doesn’t stipend lorettes; he hasn’t any rent to pay; and he never rushes into speculations which keep him dreading either a rise or fall.”

“You think you can laugh at me, great man,” returned Vauvinet, once more jovial and caressing; “you’ve turned La Fontaine’s fable of ‘Le Chene et le Roseau’ into an elixir – Come, Gubetta, my old accomplice,” he continued, seizing Bixiou round the waist, “you want money; well, I can borrow three thousand francs from my friend Cerizet instead of two; ‘Let us be friends, Cinna!’ hand over your colossal cabbages, – made to trick the public like a gardener’s catalogue. If I refused you it was because it is pretty hard on a man who can only do his poor little business by turning over his money, to have to keep your Ravenouillet notes in the drawer of his desk. Hard, hard, very hard!”

“What discount do you want?” asked Bixiou.

“Next to nothing,” returned Vauvinet. “It will cost you a miserable fifty francs at the end of the quarter.”

“As Emile Blondet used to say, you shall be my benefactor,” replied Bixiou.

“Twenty per cent!” whispered Gazonal to Bixiou, who replied by a punch of his elbow in the provincial’s oesophagus.

“Bless me!” said Vauvinet opening a drawer in his desk as if to put away the Ravenouillet notes, “here’s an old bill of five hundred francs stuck in the drawer! I didn’t know I was so rich. And here’s a note payable at the end of the month for four hundred and fifty; Cerizet will take it without much diminution, and there’s your sum in hand. But no nonsense, Bixiou! Hein? to-night, at Carabine’s, will you swear to me – ”

“Haven’t we re-friended?” said Bixiou, pocketing the five-hundred-franc bill and the note for four hundred and fifty. “I give you my word of honor that you shall see du Tillet, and many other men who want to make their way – their railway – to-night at Carabine’s.”

Vauvinet conducted the three friends to the landing of the staircase, cajoling Bixiou on the way. Bixiou kept a grave face till he reached the outer door, listening to Gazonal, who tried to enlighten him on his late operation, and to prove to him that if Vauvinet’s follower, Cerizet, took another twenty francs out of his four hundred and fifty, he was getting money at forty per cent.

When they reached the asphalt Bixiou frightened Gazonal by the laugh of a Parisian hoaxer, – that cold, mute laugh, a sort of labial north wind.

“The assignment of the contract for that railway is adjourned, positively, by the Chamber; I heard this yesterday from that marcheuse whom we smiled at just now. If I win five or six thousand francs at lansquenet to-night, why should I grudge sixty-five francs for the power to stake, hey?”

“Lansquenet is another of the thousand facets of Paris as it is,” said Leon. “And therefore, cousin, I intend to present you to-night in the salon of a duchess, – a duchess of the rue Saint-Georges, where you will see the aristocracy of the lorettes, and probably be able to win your lawsuit. But it is quite impossible to present you anywhere with that mop of Pyrenean hair; you look like a porcupine; and therefore we’ll take you close by, Place de la Bourse, to Marius, another of our comedians – ”

“Who is he?”

“I’ll tell you his tale,” said Bixiou. “In the year 1800 a Toulousian named Cabot, a young wig-maker devoured by ambition, came to Paris, and set up a shop (I use your slang). This man of genius, – he now has an income of twenty-four thousand francs a year, and lives, retired from business, at Libourne, – well, he saw that so vulgar and ignoble a name as Cabot could never attain celebrity. Monsieur de Parny, whose hair he cut, gave him the name of Marius, infinitely superior, you perceive, to the Christian names of Armand and Hippolyte, behind which patronymics attacked by the Cabot evil are wont to hide. All the successors of Cabot have called themselves Marius. The present Marius is Marius V.; his real name is Mongin. This occurs in various other trades; for ‘Botot water,’ and for ‘Little-Virtue’ ink. Names become commercial property in Paris, and have ended by constituting a sort of ensign of nobility. The present Marius, who takes pupils, has created, he says, the leading school of hair-dressing in the world.

“I’ve seen, in coming through France,” said Gazonal, “a great many signs bearing the words: ‘Such a one, pupil of Marius.’”

“His pupils have to wash their hands after every head,” said Bixiou; “but Marius does not take them indifferently; they must have nice hands, and not be ill-looking. The most remarkable for manners, appearance, and elocution are sent out to dress heads; and they come back tired to death. Marius himself never turns out except for titled women; he drives his cabriolet and has a groom.”

“But, after all, he is nothing but a barber!” cried Gazonal, somewhat shocked.

“Barber!” exclaimed Bixiou; “please remember that he is captain in the National Guard, and is decorated for being the first to spring into a barricade in 1832.”

“And take care what you say to him: he is neither barber, hair-dresser, nor wig-maker; he is a director of salons for hair-dressing,” said Leon, as they went up a staircase with crystal balusters and mahogany rail, the steps of which were covered with a sumptuous carpet.

“Ah ca! mind you don’t compromise us,” said Bixiou. “In the antechamber you’ll see lacqueys who will take off your coat, and seize your hat, to brush them; and they’ll accompany you to the door of the salons to open and shut it. I mention this, friend Gazonal,” added Bixiou, slyly, “lest you might think they were after your property, and cry ‘Stop thief!’”

“These salons,” said Leon, “are three boudoirs where the director has collected all the inventions of modern luxury: lambrequins to the windows, jardinieres everywhere, downy divans where each customer can wait his turn and read the newspapers. You might suppose, when you first go in, that five francs would be the least they’d get out of your waistcoat pocket; but nothing is ever extracted beyond ten sous for combing and frizzing your hair, or twenty sous for cutting and frizzing. Elegant dressing-tables stand about among the jardinieres; water is laid on to the washstands; enormous mirrors reproduce the whole figure. Therefore don’t look astonished. When the client (that’s the elegant word substituted by Marius for the ignoble word customer), – when the client appears at the door, Marius gives him a glance which appraises him: to Marius you are a head, more or less susceptible of occupying his mind. To him there’s no mankind; there are only heads.”

“We let you hear Marius on all the notes of his scale,” said Bixiou, “and you know how to follow our lead.”

As soon as Gazonal showed himself, the glance was given, and was evidently favourable, for Marius exclaimed: “Regulus! yours this head! Prepare it first with the little scissors.”

“Excuse me,” said Gazonal to the pupil, at a sign from Bixiou. “I prefer to have my head dressed by Monsieur Marius himself.”

Marius, much flattered by this demand, advanced, leaving the head on which he was engaged.

“I am with you in a moment; I am just finishing. Pray have no uneasiness, my pupil will prepare you; I alone will decide the cut.”

Marius, a slim little man, his hair frizzed like that of Rubini, and jet black, dressed also in black, with long white cuffs, and the frill of his shirt adorned with a diamond, now saw Bixiou, to whom he bowed as to a power the equal of his own.

“That is only an ordinary head,” he said to Leon, pointing to the person on whom he was operating, – “a grocer, or something of that kind. But if we devoted ourselves to art only, we should lie in Bicetre, mad!” and he turned back with an inimitable gesture to his client, after saying to Regulus, “Prepare monsieur, he is evidently an artist.”

“A journalist,” said Bixiou.

Hearing that word, Marius gave two or three strokes of the comb to the ordinary head and flung himself upon Gazonal, taking Regulus by the arm at the instant that the pupil was about to begin the operation of the little scissors.

“I will take charge of monsieur. Look, monsieur,” he said to the grocer, “reflect yourself in the great mirror – if the mirror permits. Ossian!”

A lacquey entered, and took hold of the client to dress him.

“You pay at the desk, monsieur,” said Marius to the stupefied grocer, who was pulling out his purse.

“Is there any use, my dear fellow,” said Bixiou, “in going through this operation of the little scissors?”

“No head ever comes to me uncleansed,” replied the illustrious hair-dresser; “but for your sake, I will do that of monsieur myself, wholly. My pupils sketch out the scheme, or my strength would not hold out. Every one says as you do: ‘Dressed by Marius!’ Therefore, I can give only the finishing strokes. What journal is monsieur on?”

“If I were you, I should keep three or four Mariuses,” said Gazonal.

“Ah! monsieur, I see, is a feuilletonist,” said Marius. “Alas! in dressing heads which expose us to notice it is impossible. Excuse me!”

He left Gazonal to overlook Regulus, who was “preparing” a newly arrived head. Tapping his tongue against his palate, he made a disapproving noise, which may perhaps be written down as “titt, titt, titt.”

“There, there! good heavens! that cut is not square; your scissors are hacking it. Here! see there! Regulus, you are not clipping poodles; these are men – who have a character; if you continue to look at the ceiling instead of looking only between the glass and the head, you will dishonor my house.”

“You are stern, Monsieur Marius.”

“I owe them the secrets of my art.”

“Then it is an art?” said Gazonal.

Marius, affronted, looked at Gazonal in the glass, and stopped short, the scissors in one hand, the comb in the other.

“Monsieur, you speak like a – child! and yet, from your accent, I judge you are from the South, the birthplace of men of genius.”

“Yes, I know that hair-dressing requires some taste,” replied Gazonal.

“Hush, monsieur, hush! I expected better things of YOU. Let me tell you that a hair-dresser, – I don’t say a good hair-dresser, for a man is, or he is not, a hair-dresser, – a hair-dresser, I repeat, is more difficult to find than – what shall I say? than – I don’t know what – a minister? – (Sit still!) No, for you can’t judge by ministers, the streets are full of them. A Paganini? No, he’s not great enough. A hair-dresser, monsieur, a man who divines your soul and your habits, in order to dress your hair conformably with your being, that man has all that constitutes a philosopher – and such he is. See the women! Women appreciate us; they know our value; our value to them is the conquest they make when they have placed their heads in our hands to attain a triumph. I say to you that a hair-dresser – the world does not know what he is. I who speak to you, I am very nearly all that there is of – without boasting I may say I am known – Still, I think more might be done – The execution, that is everything! Ah! if women would only give me carte blanche! – if I might only execute the ideas that come to me! I have, you see, a hell of imagination! – but the women don’t fall in with it; they have their own plans; they’ll stick their fingers or combs, as soon as my back is turned, through the most delicious edifices – which ought to be engraved and perpetuated; for our works, monsieur, last unfortunately but a few hours. A great hair-dresser, hey! he’s like Careme and Vestris in their careers. (Head a little this way, if you please, SO; I attend particularly to front faces!) Our profession is ruined by bunglers who understand neither the epoch nor their art. There are dealers in wigs and essences who are enough to make one’s hair stand on end; they care only to sell you bottles. It is pitiable! But that’s business. Such poor wretches cut hair and dress it as they can. I, when I arrived in Paris from Toulouse, my ambition was to succeed the great Marius, to be a true Marius, to make that name illustrious. I alone, more than all the four others, I said to myself, ‘I will conquer, or die.’ (There! now sit straight, I am going to finish you.) I was the first to introduce elegance; I made my salons the object of curiosity. I disdain advertisements; what advertisements would have cost, monsieur, I put into elegance, charm, comfort. Next year I shall have a quartette in one of the salons to discourse music, and of the best. Yes, we ought to charm away the ennui of those whose heads we dress. I do not conceal from myself the annoyances to a client. (Look at yourself!) To have one’s hair dressed is fatiguing, perhaps as much so as posing for one’s portrait. Monsieur knows perhaps that the famous Monsieur Humbolt (I did the best I could with the few hairs America left him – science has this in common with savages, that she scalps her men clean), that illustrious savant, said that next to the suffering of going to be hanged was that of going to be painted; but I place the trial of having your head dressed before that of being painted, and so do certain women. Well, monsieur, my object is to make those who come here to have their hair cut or frizzed enjoy themselves. (Hold still, you have a tuft which must be conquered.) A Jew proposed to supply me with Italian cantatrices who, during the interludes, were to depilate the young men of forty; but they proved to be girls from the Conservatoire, and music-teachers from the Rue Montmartre. There you are, monsieur; your head is dressed as that of a man of talent ought to be. Ossian,” he said to the lacquey in livery, “dress monsieur and show him out. Whose turn next?” he added proudly, gazing round upon the persons who awaited him.

“Don’t laugh, Gazonal,” said Leon as they reached the foot of the staircase, whence his eye could take in the whole of the Place de la Bourse. “I see over there one of our great men, and you shall compare his language with that of the barber, and tell me which of the two you think the most original.”

“Don’t laugh, Gazonal,” said Bixiou, mimicking Leon’s intonation. “What do you suppose is Marius’s business?”