He was a little
man, with a clean-shaven upper lip, and the mutton-chop whiskers of
a solicitor. He wore a long black coat, of severe cut, buttoned up
to the top, and a ribbon in his buttonhole. In his very pale cravat
was a breastpin with a magnificent cat's eye. Patent leather boots
and kid gloves completed the faultless attire of this gentleman,
whom one would sooner have taken for a minister than a hairdresser.
A liveried servant followed him, carrying a silver-bound morocco
box, which he took from him at the door of the boudoir, and placed
with his own hands on the rosewood table.
After an extremely ceremonious greeting, he drew off his gloves,
seated himself in an armchair by the fire, and made the countess
describe what she was going to wear. He listened with almost tragic
attention, his forehead in his hand, his eyes closed. After some
reflection, he exclaimed:
"Where is the diadem?"
Pilar placed it on the table in front of him.
He contemplated it earnestly, and then murmured:
"Good, very good. But now I must see the robe."
"Monsieur Martin," Pilar returned reproachfully, "don't you know
that my tailor respects himself far too much to send home one of his
creations before the last moment?"
"It is always the same story," he complained mournfully; "I am to
arrange a coiffure for Madame la Comtesse, the coiffure is to
harmonize with the whole, and I am not permitted to see the robe.
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