No Hairdresser, No Dress, No Carriage.
IT WOULD have been in bad taste for the Countess Dubarry to have gone merely from her apartments in the palace of Versailles to the grand salon where the presentations took place. Besides, at Versailles there were not the necessary appliances and means for such an important day.
But a better reason than any of these was, that it was not the custom. The highly favored being who was to be presented always arrived with the noise and state of a foreign ambassador, whether it were from her house in the town of Versailles, or in Paris. Madame Dubarry chose to arrive from the latter place.
At eleven o’clock in the morning, therefore, she was at her house in the Rue de Valois with the Countess de Bearn, whom she kept under lock and key when she did not keep her under her smiles, and whose burn was attended to most carefully — every secret of medicine and chemistry being exhausted on it.
From the preceding evening Jean, Chon, and Doree had been at work; and any one — who could have seen them at their work, would have formed an exalted idea of the power of gold, or the greatness of human intellect.
The one made sure of the hairdresser, the other harassed the seamstress. Jean took the department of the carriage to himself, but also cast an eye occasionally on the hairdresser and the dressmakers. The countess, occupied with flowers, diamonds, and lace, was buried in boxes, cases, and caskets, and gave audiences every hour to couriers from Versailles, who informed her how matters were going on. Orders had been given for lighting the queen’s drawing-room, and no change had taken place in the king’s intentions.
About four the viscount came in, pule, agitated, but joyful.
“Well?” asked the countess.
“Well, all will be ready!”
“The hairdresser?”
“I went to him myself; Doree was with him; but, to make sure of him, I slipped fifty louis-d’ors into his hand. He will dine here at six o’clock precisely, so you may be quite easy on that score.”
“My dress?”
“It will be a perfect wonder! Chon is superintending it; there are six-and-twenty workwomen at it, sewing on the pearls, the ribbons, and the trimmings. They go on breadth by breadth at the work, and it would certainly require eight days for any other persons than ourselves to have it finished. It is a prodigious undertaking!”
“But do you say they are doing it breadth by breadth?”
“Yes, my dear — there are thirteen breadths of the stuff; two workwomen at each breadth — one works at the right, the other at the left, putting on the jewels and trimmings; then at the last they will all be joined together. It will take them two hours yet; at six you will have it.”
“Are you quite sure, Jean?”
“Yesterday I made a calculation with an engineer about it. There are ten thousand stitches in each breadth; that is, five thousand for each workwoman. In such thick stuff, a woman can only make one stitch in five seconds; that is, twelve in one minute, seven hundred and twenty in one hour, and seven thousand two hundred in ten hours. I leave out two thousand two hundred for needle-threading and slipped stitches, and this leaves four good hours about work.”
“And what about the carriage?”
“Oh, I’ll answer for it. The varnish is now getting dry in a large store heated to fifty degrees. It is an elegant vis-a-vis, compared with which the carriages sent for the dauphiness are a mere trifle. Besides the coats of arms on the four panels there is the war cry of the Dubarrys; ‘Boutes en avaut!’ on each side. Besides that, I made them paint on one place two doves billing and cooing, and in another a heart pierced with a dart — the whole surrounded by bows and arrows, quivers and torches. There is such a crowd of people at Francian’s to see it! It will be here exactly at eight.”
At this moment Chon and Doree came in and confirmed all that Jean had said.
“Thank you, my brave aides-de-camp!” said the countess.
“My sweet sister.” said the viscount, “your eyes look a little dim — had you not better sleep for an hour? — it would quite revive you.”
“Sleep! — no! I shall sleep to-night, and that is more than some will do.”
While these preparations were going on, the report of the intended presentation had spread through all Paris. Idle and careless as they appear, no people love news more than the Parisians. None knew better all the courtiers and all the intrigues of Versailles than the Parisian cockney of the eighteenth century, though debarred from the festivities of the palace, and seeing only the hieroglyphics on the carriages and the curious liveries of the footmen. At that period such or such a nobleman was known to the whole city. The reason was simple. The court at that period formed the principal attraction in the theaters and in the gardens. Marshal Richelieu in his place at the Italian opera, Madame Dubarry in a coach rivaling that of royalty itself, were constantly before the public, like some favorite comedian or admired actress of the present day.
People are much more interested in faces that are well known to them. Every one in Paris knew Madame Dubarry’s face, constantly shown where a rich and pretty woman likes to be seen — in the theaters, in the public walks, in the shops. Besides, she was easily recognized by means of portraits, caricatures, and by her negro page, Zamore. The affair of the presentation, therefore, occupied the city nearly as much as the court. This day there was a crowd near the Palais Royal; but, poor Philosophy! it was not to see Rousseau playing chess at the Cafe de la Regence; it was to see the favorite in her fine coach and her handsome dress, of which they had heard so much. There was something deep in Jean Dubarry’s expression, “We cost a pretty little sum to France!” And it was natural that France, represented by Paris, should wish to enjoy the sight for which they had paid so dearly. Madame Dubarry knew her people well, for they we’re much more her people than they had been Queen Maria Leczinska’s. She knew that they loved to be dazzled by magnificence; and, as she was good-natured, she labored to make the spectacle correspond to the expense to which she put them.
Instead of sleeping, as her brother advised her, she took a bath about five o’clock. Then, about six o’clock, she began to expect her hairdresser; and, while she waits, we shall explain, if we can, what hairdressing then was.
It was building a complete edifice. This was the commencement of the castles which the ladies of the court of the young king, Louis XVI., erected with towers and bastions on their heads. May we not, even in this frivolity of fashion, discover something presaging that a mine was dug beneath the feet of all who were, or all who pretended to be, great? (>r that by some mysterious divination, the women of the aristocracy had learned they should have a short time to enjoy their titles — that they, therefore, made the most of them, bearing them aloft on their heads; and as if — fatal omen! — not having long to keep their heads, they must decorate those heads to the utmost point which extravagance can attain, and raise them as high as possible above the vulgar!
To plait the hair; to elevate it on a silken cushion; to roll it about a hoop of whalebone; to adorn it with diamonds, pearls, and flowers; to sprinkle it with powder, which made the eyes brilliant and the complexion fresh; to blend into harmony with the complexion pearl, ruby, opal, diamond, flowers of all hues and of all forms — to do all this, a man must be not only a great artist, but the most patient of his race.
As a proof that such a man was esteemed great, the hairdresser was the only tradesman allowed to wear a sword.
This explanation may account for the fifty louis-d’ors given by Jean Dubarry to the hairdresser of the court. It may account, also, for some fears lest the great Lubin (the court hairdresser of that day was called Lubin) might not be so punctual or so skillful on the occasion as was desirable.
The fears about his punctuality were, alas! too well founded. Six o’clock struck, and the hairdresser did not appear; then half-past six came; then a quarter to seven. One thought inspired some hope in the anxious hearts of all; it was, that a man of Monsieur Lubin’s importance would naturally make people wait a little. But seven struck. The viscount feared that the dinner prepared for the hairdresser might be cold when he came, and the great artist might be dissatisfied. He sent a servant to say that dinner waited.
The servant returned in a quarter of an hour. Those only who have waited under similar circumstances can tell how many seconds there are in such a quarter of an hour.
The servant had spoken to Madame Lubin herself, who assured him that Monsieur Lubin had set out for the countess’s, that if he were not then there, he must be on the way.
“Perhaps,” said Jean, “he has been delayed in consequence of not getting a carriage. We will wait a little.”
“Besides,” said the countess, “there will be no time lost; my hair can be attended to when I am half dressed; the presentation does not take place until ten; we have still three hours, it will only take one to go to Versailles. In the mean time, to employ me, Chon, show me my dress. Where is Chon? Chon! Chon! my dress, my dress!”
“Your dress has not come yet, madame,” said Doree, “and your sister went ten minutes ago to see about it herself.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the viscount, “I hear a noise of wheels! It is the carriage brought home, no doubt.”
The viscount was mistaken; it was Chon, who had come back full speed.
“My dress!” cried the countess, while Chon was still in the vestibule; “my dress!”
“Has it not come?” asked Chon, terror-stricken.
“No.”
“Oh, well, it can’t be long. When I got to the dressmaker’s she had just set out in a fiacre with two of her women, bringing the dress to fit it on.”
“It is a good way from her house to this, and as you drove very fast no doubt you have passed her,” said Jean.
“Yes, yes! certainly!” replied Chon, yet she could not suppress a vague feeling of apprehension.
“Viscount,” said the countess, “you had better send about the carriage, that there may be no disappointment on that side at least.”
“You are right, Jeanne,” and Dubarry opened the door. “Let some of you,” cried he, “take the new horses to Francian’s for the carriage, so that they may be all ready harnessed when it arrives.”
The coachman and the horses set off. As the sound of their trampling died away, Zamore entered with a letter.
“A letter for Mistress Barry,” said he.
“Who brought it?”
“A man.”
“A man? What sort of man?”
“A man on horseback.”
“And why did he give it to you?”
“Because Zamore was at the door.”
“But read it! Read it rather than question him!” cried Jean.
“You are right, viscount.”
“Ay, provided there be nothing annoying in the letter,” he muttered.
“Oh, no! it is some petition for his majesty.”
“It is not folded like a petition.”
“Really, viscount, you are full of fears,” said the countess, smiling, and she broke the seal. At the first line she shrieked, and fell back in her chair half-dead.
“No hairdresser, no dress, no carriage!” she cried. Chon sprang toward her. Jean seized the letter. It was evidently the writing of a woman, and ran thus:
“MADAME — Be not too confident. This evening you shall have no hairdresser, no dress, no carriage. I hope this information will reach you in time to be useful to you. As I do not desire your gratitude, I do not give you my name. Guess who I am, and you will have discovered
“A sincere friend.”
“Oh!” shouted Dubarry, “all is over! Sang bleu! I must kill somebody! By all the devils! I’ll run Lubin through the body! It is half-past seven, and he not here! Confound him! Damn him!”
And as Dubarry was not to be presented that evening, he did not care about his hair, but tore it out unmercifully in handfuls.
“But the dress! Good heavens! the dress!” cried Chon; “a hairdresser could easily be found!”
“Oh, I defy you to find one! What sort of wretch would he be? A murderer! A slaughterer! Oh, death and damnation!”
The countess said nothing, but sighs burst from her bosom, which might have softened the Choiseuls themselves could they but have heard them.
“Let us think, let us think!” said Chou, “a little calmness only. Let us find out another hairdresser, and send to the dressmaker to know what has become of the dress!;’
“No hairdresser!” murmured the almost fainting countess; “no dress! no carriage!”
“Yes, no carriage!” cried Jean; “it does not come either! It is a plot, countess, it is a plot! Cannot Sartines find out the authors of it? Cannot Maupeou hang them? Can they not with their accomplices be burned in the marketplace? I will have the hairdresser broken on the wheel! the dressmaker torn to pieces with pincers! the coachmaker flayed alive!”
At length the countess recovered a little from her state of stupefaction, but it was only to feel more poignantly all the horror of her situation.
“All is lost!” she exclaimed. “Those who have bought over Lubin are rich enough to remove all the good hairdressers from Paris. None are left me but wretches who would destroy my hair! — and my dress! — my poor dress! — and my new carriage! I thought the sight of it would have made them burst with envy!”
Dubarry did not answer — but, rolling his eyes fearfully, strode up and down the room, striking himself against the angles of the apartment; and as often as he encountered any ornament or small article of furniture, abandoning his hair, he dashed them into the smallest morsels possible, and then stamped on them with his feet.
In the midst of this scene of horror, which, spreading from the boudoir to the anterooms, and from the anterooms to the court, caused all the domestics to run hither and thither with twenty different and contradictory orders, a young man in a light green coat, a satin waistcoat, lilac breeches, and white silk stockings, got out of a cabriolet, crossed the court, stepping from stone to stone on the tips of his toes, entered the open door abandoned by all the servants, mounted the stairs, and tapped at the countess’s dressing-room door.
Jean was just stamping on a tray with a set of Sevres porcelain, which he had pulled down with the tail of his coat while he was dealing a blow with his fist to a great Chinese mandarin. When the noise of these feats had subsided a little, three gentle, discreet, modest taps were heard.
Then followed profound silence; all were in such a state of expectation that no one could ask who was there.
“Excuse me,” said an unknown voice, “but I wish to speak to the Countess Dubarry.”
“Sir, people do not enter here in that way!” cried a servant, who had discovered the stranger, and had run after him to prevent his farther advance.
“Never mind! never mind!” cried Jean, flinging open the door with a hand which might have driven in the gates of Gaza. “Worse cannot happen to us now. What do you want with the countess?”
The stranger avoided the shock of this sudden meeting by springing backward, and falling into the third position.
“Sir,” said he, “I came to offer my services to the Countess Dubarry.”
“What services, sir?”
“My professional services, sir.”
“What is your profession?”
“I am a hairdresser!” and the stranger bowed a second time.
“Oh,” cried Jean, falling on his neck, “a hairdresser! Come in! come in!”
“Come in! Come in, my dear sir!” cried Chon, almost taking the astonished young man in her arms.
“A hairdresser!” cried Madame Dubarry, raising her hands to heaven. “A hairdresser? An angel! Were you sent by Monsieur Lubin, sir?”
“I was not sent by any one. I read in the gazette that the Countess Dubarry was to be presented this evening; then, said I to myself, suppose that the Countess Dubarry had no dressmaker? — it is nut probable, but it is possible — so I think I shall try.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked the countess, a little cooled by this account.
“Leonard, madame.”
“Leonard? You are not known to any one ‘:
“If you accept my services, madame, to-morrow every one will know me.”
“Hum!” said Jean, “there are two kinds of hairdressing.”
“If madame distrusts my skill, I shall retire.”
“We have no time to try you,” said Chon.
“Why make any trial?” cried the young man, walking round the countess in a fit of enthusiasm. “I know, madame, that all eyes must be drawn to you by the style of your hair, and already in contemplating you I have invented a head which will have a most powerful effect.”
And the young man made a gesture with his hand, so full of confidence in himself, that the countess’s resolution was a little shaken, and hope sprang up in the hearts of Chon and Jean.
“Have you, really?” said she, quite astonished at the young man’s ease — for he was now leaning back, hand on hip, as the great Lubin himself would have done.
“Yes — but, madame, I must see your dress, that I may make the ornaments harmonize with it.”
“Oh, my dress! my dress!” cried the countess, recalled by his words to the terrible reality.
Jean struck his forehead fiercely. “Oh, imagine, sir,” cried he—” imagine what a horrid trick! They have carried off dress — dressmaker — all! Chon, Chon, dear Chon!” and Dubarry, tired of tearing out his hair, gave way to a downright fit of sobbing.
“Suppose you were to go back to the dressmaker’s, Chon?” said the countess,
“For what purpose? You know she had set out to come hither.”
“Alas! alas!” murmured the countess, falling back in her chair, “of what use is a hairdresser when I have no dress?”
At this moment the door-bell rung; all the doors had been carefully shut, and even bolted, by the porter, lest any other should slip in as the hairdresser had done.
“Some one rings,” said the countess.
Chon sprang to a window.
“A bandbox!” cried she.
“A bandbox!” cried the countess.
“Coming in?” cried Jean.
“Yes — no — yes. It is given to the porter — run, Jean, run!”
He dashed down the stairs, got before all the footmen, and snatched the bandbox from the porter.
Chon looked through the window.
He pulled off the lid, plunged his hand into the depths of the bandbox, and uttered a yell of joy. It contained a beautiful dress of Chinese satin, with flowers put on, and a complete trimming of lace of immense value.
“A dress! A dress!” shouted Chon, clapping her hands.
“A dress?” repeated the countess, almost sinking under her joy, as she had before under her grief.
“Who gave it you, rogue?” asked the viscount of the porter.
“A woman, sir, whom I don’t know.”
“Where is she?”
“Sir, she laid it on the step of the door, cried ‘For the countess,’ and disappeared.”
“Well, we have got a dress — that is the main thing!”
“Come up, Jean, come up!” called Chon, “my sister is dying with impatience.”
“Look!” said Jean, returning to the room, “look! — admire! See what fate sends you!”
“But it will not go on — it will not fit — it was not made for me. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! what a misfortune, for it is beautiful!”
Chon quickly measured it.
“The same length, the same width in the waist!” she exclaimed.
“What admirable stuff!” said Jean.
“It is miraculous!” said Chon.
“It is terrible!” said the countess.
“Not at all,” replied the viscount, “for it proves, that although you have great enemies, you have also devoted friends.”
“It cannot be sent by a friend,” said Chon, “for how should a friend know of the plot formed against us? It must be sent by a sylph.”
“Let it be sent by his Satanic Majesty!” exclaimed the countess, “I care not, provided it assists me to oppose the Choiseuls! Whoever sent it, he cannot be so much of a demon as they.”
“And now,” said Jean, “I am sure that you may confidently submit your head to this gentleman.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because he has been sent by the same person who sent the dress.”
“I?” said Leonard, with the most innocent surprise.
“Come, come, my dear sir! acknowledge that it was all a tale about the gazette!”
“The simple truth, sir. Here is the paper — I kept it for curl-papers,” and he drew out the gazette in which the presentation was announced.
“Now,” said Chon, “let him set to work — it is eight o’clock.”
“Oh, we have time enough!” said the hairdresser, “it will only take an hour to go to Versailles.”
“Yes, if we have a carriage,” said the countess.
“Oh, mordieu! that is true!” exclaimed Jean. “That wretch, Francian, does not come.”
“You know we have been warned; no hairdresser, no dress, no carriage!” repeated the countess.
“Now, if the coachmaker should not keep his word?” said Chon..
“No; here he is, here he is!” cried Jean.
“And the carriage, the carriage?” exclaimed the countess.
“It is at the door, no doubt. But what is the matter with the coachmaker?”
At that moment Francian rushed in, all in alarm.
“Oh, viscount!” cried he, “the carriage was on its way hither, when at the corner of a street it was seized by four men; they knocked down my young man, who was bringing it, seized the reins, and set off with it at a gallop.”
“I told you so! — I told you so!” said Dubarry, sitting down resignedly in his chair.
“But, brother,” exclaimed Chon, “exert yourself! — do something!”
“What for?”
“To get a carriage! the horses here are done out, and the carriages dirty. Jeanne cannot go in any of them.”
“Bah! the little birds find food when they don’t expect it, and we got a hairdresser and a dress in our need. Yes, our unknown friend will not forget a carriage!”
“Hush!” cried Chon, “surely I heard carriage wheels.”
“Yes, it is stopping,” he replied.
Then, springing to a window which he opened, he shouted to the servants, “Run, rascals, run! Quick, quick! Find out our benefactor!”
A carriage, lined with white satin, and drawn by two splendid bay horses, stood before the door. But neither coachman nor footman was to be seen; a common street porter held the horses by the head. A crown had been given to him by a person unknown to him at the end of the street, with orders to lead the carriage to the countess’s door.
They looked at the panels; the arms were replaced by a simple rose.
The whole of this counterplay against the miseries with which the evening had commenced lasted about an hour.
Jean had the carriage taken into the yard, and the gates locked on it; he carried up the key with him. On returning to the dressing-room, he found the hairdresser about to give the countess the first proof of his profound knowledge of his art.
“Sir,” cried the viscount, seizing him by the arm, “if you do not declare who is our protecting genius, that we may make known our eternal gratitude to him, I swear—”
“Allow me,” said the young man, interrupting him very phlegmatically, “allow me to say, sir, that you are doing me the honor of squeezing my arm so tight, that I fear my hand will be quite stiff when I shall have to dress the countess’s hair, and it is now eight o’clock.”
“Leave him alone, Jean, leave him alone!” cried the countess.
Jean sank down in his chair.
“A miracle!” exclaimed Chon; “it is a perfect fit — only an inch too long in front; but ten minutes will alter that!”
“And what is the carriage like?” asked the countess.
“It is in the best style,” replied Jean; “I got into it; it is lined with white satin and perfumed with essence of roses.”
“All is right — all is right!” cried the countess, clapping her little hands with delight. “Now, Monsieur Leonard, if you succeed on this occasion, your fortune is made!”
Leonard took possession of her head, and the very first touch of the comb revealed a skillful hand. Rapidity, taste, marvelous precision, a complete knowledge of the relation between the moral and the physical — all these he displayed in the accomplishment of his important duty.
When he had, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, given the finishing touch to the splendid edifice which he had reared on the countess’s head, he would have modestly retired, after having washed his hands in a basin which Chon presented to him, as if he had been a king.
“Now, sir,” said Dubarry, “you must know that I am as ardent in my loves as in my hatreds — as you have gained my esteem, pray tell me who you are.”
“You know already, sir, who I am — my name is Leonard — I am only a beginner.”
“A beginner? — Sang bleu! you are a thorough master of your profession.”
“You shall be my hairdresser, Monsieur Leonard,” said the countess, looking at herself in a little glass which she had in her hand; “and I shall pay you on each occasion like this fifty louis-d’ors. Chon, count out one hundred for this time — he shall have fifty of earnest money.”
“I told you, madame, that you would make my reputation.”
“But you must dress no one’s hair but mine.”
“Keep your hundred louis-d’ors, then, madame — I prefer my liberty — to it I owe the honor of having this evening dressed your hair. Liberty is the first of human blessings.”
“A philosophical hairdresser!” exclaimed Dubarry, raising his hands to heaven; “to what shall we come at last? Well, my dear Monsieur Leonard. I shall not quarrel with you — take your hundred louis-d’ors and keep your secret and your liberty. Now, countess, to your carriage!”
The last words were addressed to the Countess de Bearn, who entered stiff and stately, and dressed like an image in a shrine, She was brought out of her room just when she was to be made use of.
“Now,” cried Jean to the servants, “let four of you take her, and carry her downstairs, and if you hurt her, so as to make her heave one sigh, I’ll flay you alive!”
While he was superintending this delicate and important operation, assisted by Chon, the countess turned to seek for Monsieur Leonard; he had disappeared.
“But how did he go?” murmured Madame Dubarry, who had not yet quite recovered from the influence of the many surprises of the evening.
“How did he go? Why, through the floor, or up through the ceiling, of course, as all genii do. Take care, countess, that your head-dress does not turn into a heap of mud, your dress into a spider’s web, and your coach into a pumpkin, drawn by two rats!”
Having given utterance to this last fear, Jean took his place beside the Countess de Bearn, and her fortunate goddaughter.