a good, good friend of mine, an old friend. He advises me about all my affairs; and an institute like the St. Denis requires a great deal of advice, I can tell you. Do I know him? I should think so. He is like a father to me, in fact."
Marcélite dropped the négligé over her head. "Just tie this ribbon for me, ma bonne." Her thin, white fingers, with the long, pointed nails, could only wander aimlessly amid the bows and laces. But the hairdresser needed neither directions nor explanations. Her dark face glowed with intelligence; she seemed transformed by a sudden illumination; her deft, light fingers never worked so felicitously, pulling out lace, tying ribbon, putting in ear-rings, lifting up a puff here and pinning a curl there until the whole expression of the coiffure was reanimated, passing a powder-puff over the pale face, brushing out the eyebrows, rummaging through a sachet for the appropriate handkerchief.
"Is he married, Eugénie?"
"But no, Aurore.—What brutality!" she thought.
"Ah!" Aurore opened the door for them to go out.
