Short Fiction

he were going to be put to the torture.

In his astonishment his father said:

“There must be something the matter with the child,” and mechanically he lifted up his little nightshirt.

He uttered a prolonged “O‑o‑h!” of astonishment. The child’s calves, thighs, and buttocks were covered with blue spots as big as halfpennies.

“Just look, Mathilde!” the father exclaimed; “this is horrible!” And the mother rushed forward in a fright. It was horrible; no doubt the beginning of some sort of leprosy, of one of those strange affections of the skin which doctors are often at a loss to account for. The parents looked at one another in consternation.

“We must send for the doctor,” the father said.

But Mathilde, pale as death, was looking at her child, who was spotted like a leopard. Then suddenly uttering a violent cry as if she had seen something that filled her with horror, she exclaimed:

“Oh! the wretch!”

M. Moreau, surprised asked: “What? Whom are you speaking about? What wretch?”

She reddened up to the roots of her hair and stammered: “Nothing⁠ ⁠… it is⁠ ⁠… you see, I guess⁠ ⁠… It must be⁠ ⁠… Don’t let us get the doctor. It is surely that miserable nurse who pinches the little one to make him stop when he cries.” The notary, very angry, went to the nurse and nearly beat her. She denied the charges, but was discharged. Her conduct was denounced to the municipal authorities, and she could never get another situation.

The Moustache

Château de Solles, Monday, July 30, 1883.

My Dear Lucy:

I have no news. We live in the drawing room, looking out at the rain. We cannot go out in this frightful weather, so we have theatricals. My dear, how stupid these drawing room plays are nowadays! Everything is forced, coarse, heavy. The jokes are like cannon balls, smashing everything in their passage. No wit, nothing natural, no good humour, no elegance. These literary men, in truth, know nothing of society. They are perfectly ignorant of how people think and talk in our set. I do not mind if they despise our customs, our conventions, and our manners, but I do not forgive them for not knowing them. When they want to be humorous they make puns that would entertain a sergeants’ mess; when they try to be jolly, they give us jokes that they must have picked up on the outer boulevards, in those beer houses artists are supposed to frequent, where one has heard the same students’ jokes for fifty years.

So we have taken to theatricals. As we are only two women, my husband takes the part of a soubrette, and, in order to do that, he has shaved off his moustache. You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him! I no longer recognize him⁠—by day or at night. If he did not let it grow again I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.

In fact, a man without a moustache is no longer a man. I do not care much for a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a moustache, oh, a moustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would never believe how pleasant these little hair bristles on the upper lip are to look at and⁠ ⁠… in other ways. I have thought over the matter a great deal, but hardly dare to write my thoughts. I would like to whisper them to you. Words look so different on paper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that it requires infinite skill to tackle it.

Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I never could fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if it were Father Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone with him (my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself be kissed by a man without a moustache; their kisses have no flavour, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap⁠—yes, the snap⁠—of a real kiss. The moustache is the spice.

Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry⁠—or moist⁠—parchment. That is the kiss of the man without a moustache. It is not worth while.

Whence comes this charm of the moustache, will you tell me? Do I know myself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and it sends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.

And on your neck! Have you ever felt a moustache on your neck? It intoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your fingers. You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You wish to get away and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful, but irritating. But how good it is!

And then⁠ ⁠… really I am afraid to say it! A husband who loves you, absolutely, I mean, knows a lot of little corners to be kissed, places one never could think of alone. These kisses, without a moustache, also lose much of their flavour. In fact they become indecent. Can you explain this? I think I know why. A lip without a moustache is like a body without clothing; and one must wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing. The Creator (I dare not use any other word in speaking of such things) took care to cover all the parts of our body that were made for love. A shaven lip makes me think of trees that have been felled around a fountain where one hoped to quench one’s thirst and rest.

I recall a sentence (uttered by a politician) which has been running in my mind for three months. My husband, who keeps up with the newspapers, read me one evening a very singular speech by our Minister of Agriculture, who was called M. Méline. He may have been superseded by this time. I do not know.

I