It seems as though Fancy were afraid to promise what might be out of her power, and, at the same time, that it pained her not to be able to give the promise.
“I will ask,” she whispered; “and now....”
Wouter rubbed his eyes ... he was standing on the little bridge over the canal.
FOURNICHON, _the hair-dresser, discovered in his shop, busy finishing a lady’s chignon_.
_Fournichon._ There ought to be a machine invented to make our work easier, ... say, some simple arrangement in which you throw in a handful of hair on one side and take out a _perruque perfectionnée_ on the other. I shall certainly bring up my son as a mechanician, and entrust him with the invention of this indispensable machine. Let me see, whose turn is it now? Ah! Mevrouw Priddeau,—_a chignon à la sauvage_, of at least three kilos? ... _Mille tonnerres!_ I am quite out of black hair! Hi! Pierre!
[_He sends his assistants to purchase the necessary supplies; almost immediately after his shop is hastily entered by two students, Charles and John, who drop into chairs, as though completely exhausted._]
_Fournichon_ (_rising_). How can I serve you, gentlemen?
_Charles_ (_gasping_). A glass of water, if you please.
[_Fournichon supplies them both, and goes on._] How you startled me, gentlemen! to rush in breathlessly like that! Yet it’s not the season for mad dogs!
_Charles._ If it had only been a mad dog!
_Fournichon._ Surely no tiger has broken loose from the Zoological Gardens?
_Fournichon._ Come, come, I shall not make myself uneasy. You have been up to some mischief, haven’t you? You were pursued by the police, and you saw no other refuge but the hospitable establishment of _M. Fournichon, Coiffeur des Deux Sexes_. Now, am I not right?
_Charles._ Yes, that’s it,—the contemptible wretch ... the scoundrel! ... The same low cad who got me in for three weeks’ solitary last year. Far worse than the maddest dog, or the most savage tiger!
_John._ The fellow never will learn to understand that a couple of rix-dollars are worth far more than his so-called official honour, which involves him in the constant risk of incurring a thrashing.
_Fournichon._ But what has happened, after all? Surely, gentlemen, you did not come running here in such haste to tell me that you got into quod last year?