Suppose you come every morning
to my hotel to shave me." "With pleasure, sir," said I. "Here is my address," said he, handing me a card. I read the name Lord Goldborough, Hotel ----, Rue ----, No. 25 _au
premier_. I fell into a sort of stupor at the discovery that I had been
shaving a real live lord, without knowing it. So taken aback was I, that
I forgot to stuff his pockets with bears' grease, tooth powder, fancy
soaps, hair dye, tooth and nail brushes, etc. Before I had well recovered, he was out of the shop. He had left an
English paper behind him by mistake, and a letter, the former of which I
perused, while the latter I placed in my pocket, to return to him on the
morrow at his hotel. No sooner had my countryman left the shop than Pauline asked me if he
wasn't an Englishman. "Yes," I replied, glad of an opportunity of making myself big in her
eyes and of inspiring my rival with awe and respect for me; "his name is
Lord Goldborough, _un grand milord_, who has known me many years, and
all my family. In fact," said I, "he is distantly connected with
us." --(I did not say on account of our both being descended from Adam). I told them in the shop that he had engaged my services every morning at
his hotel to shave him, for old acquaintance sake, and finally that he
had called on me on purpose, under the excuse of being shaved, to lend
me that paper to read, where there was a long account of the great
political deeds of a celebrated English minister related to us both; in
fact, no less a man than the renowned William Pitt. There's no harm in
making yourself as big as you can when you are sure of not being found
out--eh, gentlemen?--and when you do come out with a lie, tell a good
'un whilst you're about it--that's my morality. Pauline raised her eyebrows and looked at me archly, half incredulously. Jacques, who had been sulkily combing out some bunches of hair for
wig-making behind the counter, looked up for a moment, his mouth wide
open with astonishment, then resumed his work. I little knew at the time how dearly I should have to pay for a few idle
words. These are dangerous times to jest in, gentlemen, especially
t'other side of the water, and if you happen to have an enemy. I was
inexperienced in these matters then, but I have bought my experience
since, and dearly enough I had to pay for it. On the following morning I hastened to keep my appointment with my noble
countryman. I found him very affable and condescending, and he was
pleased to compliment me on my skill in barber-craft. He talked to me
much about England and my family, of politics, of the French, etc., and
asked me how I liked foreign parts. I naturally felt flattered at the
interest he seemed to take in me, but I knew how to keep my place,
always styling him "my lord" and "your lordship." In fact, we got on
capitally together. When I returned to the shop I bragged of the
intimacy between my patron and myself, not always sticking literally to
the truth, but colouring my reception a little highly to excite envy
and respect in my rival and interest in Pauline. After this I went regularly every day to his lordship, and came back
after every visit with an extravagantly coloured account of my noble
customer's bounty and friendship for me, as well as the unlimited share
of his confidence that I enjoyed. Pauline's smiles grew daily more
winning, and Jacques scowled more and more savagely from behind the
counter. One morning, as I was preparing as usual to start for my noble patron's
hotel, an ugly-looking ruffian, dressed in the preposterous fashion of
the "incroyables," entered the shop, and strutting up to my employer,
who was hard at work on a new wig, said, "Citoyen, you harbour a
'_suspect_.'" "Not I, my friend, I assure you," said Le Chauve. "It is a mistake; I
have no one in the house but my wife and daughter and two
apprentices--one an Englishman lately arrived." "Just so, an Englishman, a spy of the English Government; a most
dangerous character, and on the most intimate terms with Lord Goldboro',
who is himself a spy." "It cannot possibly be my assistant Suds," muttered my employer to
himself. "_Oui, Suds, c'est bien lui, le voici_," and he showed a warrant for my
immediate arrest. "_Mais c'est impossible, monchére, ce pauvre garçon, si jeune, si
innocent_," pleaded my kind employer. "Nevertheless, I have my orders. If he is innocent, he will be proved
so. I come not to dispute whether he be innocent or guilty, but to
arrest him," said the incroyable. "_Allons, où est-il?_"

Now, concealment I knew to be impossible, resistance futile. The only
thing to be done was to face the matter out boldly and trust to
Providence. (Of course, I made no doubt as to whom I had to thank for my
arrest.) So walking bravely into the shop, without any show of fear, I
thus accosted the incroyable, "So, citoyen, it appears you have orders
to arrest me. I will not dispute your authority, although I know myself
to be innocent of the charges brought against me. I can pretty well
guess _which_ of my kind friends has been so considerate as to procure
for me a safe night's lodging free from expense, and his motive in doing
so." Here I darted a withering glance at Jacques, who cowered beneath my
gaze, and another pleading one at Pauline, as if I would say, "You see
how I am betrayed, and by whom." Pauline stood pale as death--or rather, leant against the wall for
support. She seemed unable to utter a word, and yet seemed struggling
with herself to defend me. As if spell-bound, she looked on in mute
horror, until the guard entered the shop, and I had barely time to say,
"_Au revoir, Monsieur le Chauve; adieu, Mademoiselle Pauline._ I am
innocent, whatever my enemies may try and make me out, and doubt not but
I shall be able to prove my innocence. Await my speedy return. _En
evant, gards_," and off I was conducted by the soldiers. I was hardly out of the shop when a piercing female shriek reached my
ears, and poor Pauline had fallen fainting to the ground. I saw and
heard no more, for though I was outwardly calm, my brain was racked with
the direst apprehensions. Here I was being led openly through the streets of Paris like a
felon--whither? To prison--to the Bastille, to be tried; possibly, nay
probably, to be condemned to death. What for? What had I done? "Nothing;
I am innocent," I said to myself. "No matter, so have others been that
have likewise perished by the guillotine," I thought I heard a voice
inwardly say. "Executions are now of daily occurrence, and not
individuals, but hundreds of individuals, perish for they know not what. Marat, from out his obscure lodgings, and seated up to the neck in his
warm bath, doth complacently issue forth his bloody orders, from which
not even innocence itself is free. Oh, the malignity of human nature!" thought I. "Base, base Jacques Millefleurs! for who else could have
betrayed me? And Pauline, poor girl! what would become her?"