make himself a king! It is not possible, zey cannot be as mad as zat—Someday, mamselle—someday zis folie will pass, the Bourbons will come back. You will see, as sure as le bon Dieu watches us up there ... the Bourbons will be back on zere rightful throne'. His eyes watered and he muttered on to himself.
Theo sighed. He was off again, poor old thing. Nothing to do but wait patiently until he took up his comb. Adonis was an artist with the scissors and tongs, by far the best in the town, and the ladies and gentlemen who patronized him all knew his story and put up with his mania. He had been born on Martinique, a free negro of some consequence, and with a passionate loyalty to his king. Louis XVI and God were for him merged into one. The Revolution had broken his heart, and he had been hustled off the island by friends just before the newly appointed committee got around to dealing with a trouble-making old negro.
He had landed in New York and taken a mighty vow. Never would he cover his kinky poll until the Bourbons reigned again. Winter snows and summer suns beat alike on his grizzling thatch, while he stalked grimly around the streets, his pockets filled with the implements of his trade, his soul filled with hatred for the Anti-Christs who had murdered his king.
'The Count Jérôme de Joliette is coming today,' said Theo slyly, beginning to despair of getting her hair finished.
Adonis started, his seamed face crinkled. He picked up the comb. 'Ah, c'est bon. Un aristocrat de l'ancien régime. I will make you vairy vairy beautiful for him.'
Well, hardly—thought Theo. The Count was a dreadful bore, and quite old, way over thirty. But her bait had served its purpose.
Adonis piled her ringleted hair, dexterously inserted a small white ostrich plume, anchored it with a cluster of rosebuds. He backed off considering. Theo tried to control her fidgets.
'Mamselle has beautiful nose, classique; I have made it more easy to see. And she has magnificent eyes; she should not wear her hair so low on the forehead, only those two little curls, just as I have put them—so. Also zey balance ze chin. Mamselle have ze chin a bit full, a bit too round. Now no one will notice——
'Yes, Adonis, you've made a masterpiece of me. Thank you, but I must get ready. I see the Hamiltons' curricle coming down the drive, and that means it's late. Peggy will give you your money in the kitchen.'
She hustled the old man out and called her maid. They embarked on the intricacies of her toilette, lacing her tender young body into long stays made of steel and leather. These reached so high as to push her small bosom even higher than its normal position, and they cut cruelly underneath. Theo hated them, and wore them as seldom as possible, fashion or no fashion. Over the stays went a short muslin petticoat, then white silk stockings with clocks, and tiny yellow satin shoes whose flexible kid soles barely separated her feet from the floor.
The shoes gave her no height, but the Parisian gown did, for it was fashioned very simply in the new mode: a long straight fall of white India muslin, caught high under the bosom with a band of gold embroidery whose gilded vine pattern was repeated at the hem.
And of course there was the necklace, sparkling on her white skin like a shower of raindrops.
When she looked in the mirror, she knew that she was lovely. Her heart swelled with a delicious sense of power. This was her evening, her day. To be admired and feted against the background of Aaron's fondly approving smile, what greater joy was there in life?
She paused before entering the long drawing-room, looking for her father. It was filled with people. Despite the flooding sunshine outside, the curtains were drawn and all the hundred tapers lighted. They glittered from their crystal pendants, a forest of twinkling yellow flame. The guests made a soft pastel blur of rose and blue and green and violet, accented by an occasional powdered head like that of
Theo sighed. He was off again, poor old thing. Nothing to do but wait patiently until he took up his comb. Adonis was an artist with the scissors and tongs, by far the best in the town, and the ladies and gentlemen who patronized him all knew his story and put up with his mania. He had been born on Martinique, a free negro of some consequence, and with a passionate loyalty to his king. Louis XVI and God were for him merged into one. The Revolution had broken his heart, and he had been hustled off the island by friends just before the newly appointed committee got around to dealing with a trouble-making old negro.
He had landed in New York and taken a mighty vow. Never would he cover his kinky poll until the Bourbons reigned again. Winter snows and summer suns beat alike on his grizzling thatch, while he stalked grimly around the streets, his pockets filled with the implements of his trade, his soul filled with hatred for the Anti-Christs who had murdered his king.
'The Count Jérôme de Joliette is coming today,' said Theo slyly, beginning to despair of getting her hair finished.
Adonis started, his seamed face crinkled. He picked up the comb. 'Ah, c'est bon. Un aristocrat de l'ancien régime. I will make you vairy vairy beautiful for him.'
Well, hardly—thought Theo. The Count was a dreadful bore, and quite old, way over thirty. But her bait had served its purpose.
Adonis piled her ringleted hair, dexterously inserted a small white ostrich plume, anchored it with a cluster of rosebuds. He backed off considering. Theo tried to control her fidgets.
'Mamselle has beautiful nose, classique; I have made it more easy to see. And she has magnificent eyes; she should not wear her hair so low on the forehead, only those two little curls, just as I have put them—so. Also zey balance ze chin. Mamselle have ze chin a bit full, a bit too round. Now no one will notice——
'Yes, Adonis, you've made a masterpiece of me. Thank you, but I must get ready. I see the Hamiltons' curricle coming down the drive, and that means it's late. Peggy will give you your money in the kitchen.'
She hustled the old man out and called her maid. They embarked on the intricacies of her toilette, lacing her tender young body into long stays made of steel and leather. These reached so high as to push her small bosom even higher than its normal position, and they cut cruelly underneath. Theo hated them, and wore them as seldom as possible, fashion or no fashion. Over the stays went a short muslin petticoat, then white silk stockings with clocks, and tiny yellow satin shoes whose flexible kid soles barely separated her feet from the floor.
The shoes gave her no height, but the Parisian gown did, for it was fashioned very simply in the new mode: a long straight fall of white India muslin, caught high under the bosom with a band of gold embroidery whose gilded vine pattern was repeated at the hem.
And of course there was the necklace, sparkling on her white skin like a shower of raindrops.
When she looked in the mirror, she knew that she was lovely. Her heart swelled with a delicious sense of power. This was her evening, her day. To be admired and feted against the background of Aaron's fondly approving smile, what greater joy was there in life?
She paused before entering the long drawing-room, looking for her father. It was filled with people. Despite the flooding sunshine outside, the curtains were drawn and all the hundred tapers lighted. They glittered from their crystal pendants, a forest of twinkling yellow flame. The guests made a soft pastel blur of rose and blue and green and violet, accented by an occasional powdered head like that of
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