The old negro threw a contemptuous glance toward the window. 'Jus' Republican canaille, mamselle—don' know better zan be early. What do zey know of etiquette?' He snorted, twisting and snipping expertly at Theo's hair. 'Parvenus! Like zat Josephine Beauharnais over in France now, pretending she be somebody. I see her many times in Martinique. Pfoui! Running after any planter who would look at her—no better zan a trollop.'

Theo giggled, and he rolled his intelligent, yellowish eyes. 'Je vous demande pardon, mamselle, but it is truth. Over zere zey kill ze king, zey kill everybody—and now zey let zis Corsican brigand lord it over zem wiz his—his doxy, cette Josephine!'

He flung down his comb, his hands shook, their pinkish palms wet.

'Zey even say zis Bonaparte will 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.