Thibault sprang up hastily.
“Where? How?” he asked.
“Your hair is on fire,” answered the Bailiff, in all sincerity; and so genuine was his terror, that he seized the water bottle that was in front of his wife in order to put out the conflagration blazing among Thibault’s locks.
The shoemaker involuntarily put up his hand to his head, but feeling no heat, he at once guessed what was the matter, and fell back into his chair, turning horribly pale. He had been so preoccupied during the last two days, that he had quite forgotten to take the same precaution he had done before visiting the owner of the mill, and had omitted to give his hair that particular twist whereby he was able to hide the hairs of which the black wolf had acquired the proprietorship under his others. Added to this, he had during this short period given vent to so many little wishes, one here, and one there, all more or less to the detriment of his neighbour, that the flame-coloured hairs had multiplied to an alarming extent, and at this moment, any one of them could vie in brilliancy with the light from the two wax candles which lit the room.
“Well, you did give me a dreadful fright, Monsieur Magloire,” said Thibault, trying to conceal his agitation.
“But, but …” responded the Bailiff, still pointing with a certain remains of fear at Thibault’s flaming lock of hair.
“That is nothing,” continued Thibault, “do not be uneasy about the unusual colour of some of my hair; it came from a fright my mother had with a pan of hot coals, that nearly set her hair on fire before I was born.”
“But what is more strange still,” said Madame Suzanne, who had swallowed a whole glassful of water in the effort to control her laughter, “that I have remarked this dazzling peculiarity for the first time today.”