A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one must wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.

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. Meline.  He may have been superseded by this time.  I do not know.

I was paying no attention, but the name Meline struck me.  It recalled, I do not exactly know why, the ‘Scenes de la vie de boheme’.  I thought it was about some grisette.  That shows how scraps of the speech entered my mind.  This M. Meline 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 mustache.  When you say it that way it sounds comical, does it not?

There is no love without a mustache!

“There is no patriotism without agriculture,” said M. Meline, and he was right, that minister; I now understand why.

From a very different point of view the mustache 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 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.