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 weep all my tears
and also—I see it now—made me
love a mustache 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 chateau. I had heard the firing
of the cannon and of the artillery all the morning,
and that evening a German colonel came and took up
his abode in our house. He left the following
day.
My father was informed that there were a number of
dead bodies 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 unpleasant,
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 clayey 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 mustache!
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 mustache, very plain, the proud mustache
that seems to say: “Do not take me for my
bearded friend, little one; 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, good-by,
dear Lucy. I send you a hearty kiss. Long
live the mustache!
Jeanne.
The first thing I did was to look at the clock as
I entered the waiting-room of the station at Loubain,
and I found that I had to wait two hours and ten minutes
for the Paris express.
I had walked twenty miles and felt suddenly tired.
Not seeing anything on the station walls to amuse
me, I went outside and stood there racking my brains
to think of something to do. The street was a
kind of boulevard, planted with acacias, and on either
side a row of houses of varying shape and different
styles of architecture, houses such as one only sees
in a small town, and ascended a slight hill, at the
extreme end of which there were some trees, as though
it ended in a park.
