Our
interviews were detected at length by Sally's parents, who looked on our
attachment with no favourable eyes. Old Snip was ambitious, and designed
quite another match for his daughter than a penniless young barber like
myself, and gave me plainly to understand that if I did not _sheer_ off
he would _baste_ my broadcloth for me. I was in a rage, but smothered it
for prudence sake, yet didn't I wish in that moment that I had the
shaving of him--wouldn't I have scraped him, that's all! Well, words
grew high; I protested that my intentions were strictly honourable,
etc., etc., but all to no purpose; the obstinate old parent wouldn't see
what was for his daughter's good, and I left him very much disgusted. A
few stolen interviews were attempted after this, but were all
frustrated, and I soon saw we were not destined for one another, so we
met for the last time, wept, embraced, and vowed still to love each
other to eternity. Now, there is no knowing but I might still have sought to renew my
interviews, had not an extraordinary circumstance occurred to alter my
determination. On the very night after our parting I was tossing
restlessly on my bed, between sleeping and waking, when all of a
sudden--whether it was a dream, I know not, but I fancy that I was
awake--all at once there stood by my bedside the spirit of my father in
the habiliments of the grave, unblemished in whiteness as the suds he
used in his lifetime, and, approaching me solemnly, said,

"My son, all that has happened is for the best. Stick to thy trade, and
rival the most illustrious of thy ancestors, to which end thou must
visit Paris. I will guide thy steps. Practise incessantly. We shall meet
again." With these words the vision vanished, and I felt myself bathed in a cold
sweat. I slept no more that night, but rose early the following morning. My
determination was fixed, for a parent's command from the other side of
the tomb was not to be combated, so I scraped together my slender
earnings, tied up my bundle, took leave of my employer, and paid my
passage over to Paris. Soon after my departure Sally Snip became the wife of Daniel Nimble, an
aspiring apprentice of old Simon's. This was my first love, and, like
most first loves, ended miserably. Few men there are I wot who can boast
of having loved but once, and of having lived uncrossed in that love to
the end of the chapter. But I digress. No sooner arrived in Paris than I began searching out the names and
addresses of the most celebrated men in the hair line of the day with a
view of offering my services as assistant. The day after my arrival I
passed a large and handsome shop, evidently a first-rate business, with
a large printed card in the window. Now, although at that time I had not
the remotest knowledge of the French language, and consequently could
not possibly understand what was written on the card, yet an
indescribable I-don't-know-what, an inexplicable "_je-ne-sais-quoi_"
(perchance a spiritual dig in the ribs from my father), induced me to
interpret the words, "_A boy wanted_." I was as certain as I am of my
own existence that the proprietor was in want of an assistant and that
my services would be accepted, so I entered the shop, addressed the
proprietor in English, which, it is needless to say, was perfectly
unintelligible to him. However, by expressive signs, I told him I was an
adept, and that he couldn't do better than engage me. He smiled, the
bargain was struck, and from that day I commenced my career in a foreign
land. My employer was one Pierre le Chauve, a hair-dresser who had an
extensive business in the Rue St. Honorè, and who was especially
renowned for the neatness and elegance of his wigs. He also cut hair,
manufactured fancy soaps, hair oil, hair dye, perfumery, and the like. He had one daughter, Mademoiselle Pauline, of some eighteen summers, as
neat a little grisette as ever trod the Champs Elysées or the Bois de
Boulogne on Sundays, and who presided at the counter and sold articles
of perfumery to the Parisian exquisites, with whom she chatted with the
most charming ease and grace and bewitching naïveté. Pauline was the thorough type of a French girl. Eyes of dark hazel, set
wide apart in her head, nez retrousee, rather wide mouth and exceptional
teeth, small hand and foot, jimp waist, and a countenance capable of
every possible shade of expression, while her voice, by nature pitched
in a high key, rose to shrillest treble when under any excitement. Besides myself, there was another assistant, one Jacques Millefleurs, a
conceited French puppy, who fancied himself irresistible, and used to
persecute his employer's daughter with the most marked attentions
whenever her father's back was turned, and which she, it must be
confessed, did not appear to be entirely indifferent to, although, at
the same time, she gave him plainly to understand that she intended to
flirt with whomever she liked without asking _his_ permission, and that
he had no right whatever to monopolise her. Jacques was of an
exceedingly jealous temper, and could ill brook this tone from the
object of his affections; this she knew well, and often took a malicious
delight in provoking him by putting on her best airs and graces and
being doubly fascinating whenever a handsome customer came to the shop. It was then that Jacques would grow pale, and dart vicious side glances
from the corners of his eyes; but Pauline took no notice of him
whatever, but flirted more and more, as if to aggravate him. After the
customer had departed they would have a lovers' quarrel, and then they
would make it up again, and so on from day to day. Now, all this could be of very little interest to me, even if I had
understood their conversation, for had I not my own secret grief? Was it
to be supposed that I could forget Sally in a day? No; whilst I in
silence counted and separated the hairs destined to be woven into the
scalp of a wig, or whilst shaving a customer or cutting his hair, my
soul was in the green lane with Sally, or behind her at church, or under
her window at night, watching for a momentary glimpse of her shadow on
the window blind. In fact, whatever happened to be my employment, Sally
was ever uppermost in my thoughts, and still continued to be so, even
some time after the sad news reached me that she had married Daniel
Nimble. This shock at first was terrific, but, gradually subsiding, I
resolved at length that, as she had so soon forgotten me, not to think
of her any more, which in time I succeeded in doing. From being moody
and silent, I now became more talkative, for I had begun to pick up a
few phrases in French. Mademoiselle Pauline encouraged me in my progress, and was pleased to
take a great interest in me, much to the disgust of her admirer, Jacques
Millefleurs, who began to look upon me as a probable rival. I daily
improved in the French language under my fair tutor, and day by day she
gained upon me, for she certainly had the most winning manners.