was paying no attention, but the name Méline struck me. It recalled, I do not exactly know why, the
Scènes de la vie de bohème. I thought it was about some grisette. That shows how scraps of the speech entered my mind. This
M. Méline was making this statement to the people of Amiens, I believe, and I have ever since been trying to understand what he meant: “There is no patriotism without agriculture!” Well, I have just discovered his meaning, and I affirm in my turn that there is no love without a moustache. When you say it that way it sounds comical, does it not?
There is no love without a moustache!
“There is no patriotism without agriculture,” said M. Méline, and he was right, that minister; I now understand why.
From a very different point of view the moustache is essential. It gives character to the face. It makes a man look gentle, tender, violent, a monster, a rake, enterprising! The hairy man, who does not shave off his whiskers, never has a refined look, for his features are concealed, and the shape of the jaw and the chin betrays a great deal to those who understand.
The man with a moustache retains his own peculiar expression and his refinement at the same time.
And how many different varieties of moustaches there are! Sometimes they are twisted, curled, coquettish. Those seem to be chiefly devoted to women.
Sometimes they are pointed, sharp as needles, and threatening. That kind prefers wine, horses and war.
Sometimes they are enormous, overhanging, frightful. These big ones generally conceal a fine disposition, a kindliness that borders on weakness and a gentleness that savours of timidity.
But what I adore above all in the moustache is that it is French, altogether French. It came from our ancestors, the Gauls, and has remained the insignia of our national character.
It is boastful, gallant and brave. It sips wine gracefully and knows how to laugh with refinement, while the broad-bearded jaws are clumsy in everything they do.
I recall something that made me cry my heart out, and also—I see it now—made me love a moustache on a man’s face.
It was during the war, when I was living with my father. I was a young girl then. One day there was a skirmish near the château. I had heard the firing of the cannon and of the artillery all the morning, and that evening a German colonel came and quartered himself in our house. He left the following day. My father was informed that there were a number of dead in the fields. He had them brought to our place so that they might be buried together. They were laid all along the great avenue of pines as fast as they brought them in, on both sides of the avenue, and as they began to smell, their bodies were covered with earth until the deep trench could be dug. Thus one saw only their heads, which seemed to protrude from the earth and were almost as yellow, with their closed eyes.
I wanted to see them. But when I saw those two rows of frightful faces, I thought I should faint. However, I began to look at them, one by one, trying to guess what kind of men these had been.
The uniforms were concealed beneath the earth, and yet immediately, yes, immediately, my dear, I recognized the Frenchmen by their moustache!
Some of them had shaved on the very day of the battle, as though they wished to be elegant up to the last; others seemed to have a week’s growth, but all wore the French moustache, very plain, the proud moustache that seems to say: “Do not take me for my bearded friend, dear; I am a brother.”
And I cried, oh, I cried a great deal more than I should if I had not recognized them, the poor dead fellows.
It was wrong of me to tell you this. Now I am sad and cannot chatter any longer. Well, goodbye, dear Lucy. I send you a hearty kiss. Long live the moustache!
Timbuktu
The boulevard, that river of life, swarmed with people in the golden dust of the setting sun. The whole sky was a blinding red; and, behind the Madeleine, an immense blazing cloud flung along the great avenue an oblique shower of fire, quivering like the vapour above a brazier.
The gay, throbbing crowd went by under this flaming mist, and seemed transfigured. Faces were gilded, black hats and clothes took on purple gleams; the varnish on their shoes darted flames across the asphalt pavement.
In front of the cafés a throng of men were drinking gleaming, coloured beverages, which looked like precious stones melted into the crystal.
In this crowd of people with their thin and sombre clothes, sat two officers in full uniform, and the dazzling brilliance of their gold lace made every eye glance at them. They were talking gaily and aimlessly, in the midst of all this radiant vibrant life, in the glowing splendour of the evening; and they were watching the throng, the sauntering men and the hurrying women who left behind them a divine and disquieting perfume.
Suddenly an enormous Negro, dressed in black, potbellied, bedizened with trinkets on his waistcoat of ticking, his face shining as though it had been polished with blacking, passed in front of them with an air of triumph. He laughed at the passersby, he laughed at the newspaper-vendors, he laughed at the blazing sky, he laughed at the whole of Paris. He was so tall that his head overtopped all others; and, behind him, all the loungers turned round to stare at his back.
But suddenly he caught sight of the officers, and, jostling through the crowd of drinkers, he rushed up to them. As soon as he was in front of their table, he fixed his gleaming, delighted eyes upon them, and the corners of his mouth rose to his ears, disclosing his white teeth, bright as a crescent moon in
