e shape of the jaw and the chin betrays a great deal to those who
understand.

The man with a mustache retains his own peculiar expression and his
refinement at the same time.

And how many different varieties of mustaches 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 savors of timidity.

But what I adore above all in the mustache 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 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 t