. The ordinary pay of the
_demoiselle-mannequin_ in the grand establishments is from sixty to
eighty dollars a month, with half board; but some of them who have
exceptionally elegant figures and perfect bearing are paid fancy prices,
reaching as much in rare cases as two thousand dollars a year.

Imagine the appearance of these saloons between two and five o'clock in
the afternoon during the season, filled as they are with chattering and
finely-dressed ladies,--Parisiennes, Russians with their lazy accent,
English and Americans talking in their own tongue, princesses of the
Almanach de Gotha and princesses of the footlights, and even of the
_demi-monde_, all united in adoration of the idol of fashion. A confused
murmur of musical voices rises in an atmosphere impregnated with the
perfumes of ylang-ylang, heliotrope, peau d'Espagne, jonquil, iris,
poudre de riz, and odor di femina. The heads of the different
departments are seen passing to and fro with fragments of a dress or a
corsage in their arms, and amid the buzzing assembly the models move
incessantly, like animated statues, silent and majestic. From time to
time the voice of the great artist is heard giving brief and imperious
orders, or scolding plaintively because a ruche has been substituted for
a flounce on the dress of Madame X----, or a light fur for a dark fur on
the mantle of the Baronne de V----,--"a pale blonde! The whole thing
will have to be made over again. What can I do if I am not seconded?" he
asks irritably. "Truly, _mesdemoiselles, c'est a se donner au diable_!"
With these words flung at a little group of employees, the great man
appears. He is a short man, dressed in light-gray trousers, a blue coat
with a broad velvet collar and silk lappels in which are stuck a few
pins for use in sudden inspirations, a flowered waistcoat, and a heavy
watch-chain. His head is bald and surrounded by a fringe of dust-colored
gray hair, frizzled so finely that it looks like swans'-down. His
whiskers and moustache have the same fine and woolly appearance. His
blue eyes look worn and faded; his face has flushed red patches on a
pale anaemic ground; his expression is one of subdued suffering, due to
the continual neuralgia by which he is tormented, thanks to the strong
perfumes which his elegant customers force him to inhale all day long.
Epinglard, for so we will call him for convenience' sake, rarely dines
during the busy season: he is the martyr of his profession.