Madame F—(resuming work with equal ardor)—And yet, my dear, people say they are.
Madame H—There are so many false reports set afloat. (A long silence.)
Madame F—(in a discreet tone of voice)—After all, there are priests who have beards—the Capuchins, for instance.
Madame H—Madame de V. has a beard right up to her eyes, so that counts for nothing, dear.
Madame F—That counts for nothing. I do not think so. In the first place, Madame de V.'s beard is not a perennial beard; her niece told me that she sheds her moustaches every autumn. What can a beard be that can not stand the winter? A mere trifle.
Madame H—A mere trifle that is horribly ugly, my dear.
Madame F—Oh! if Madame de V. had only moustaches to frighten away people, one might still look upon her without sorrow, but—
Madame H—I grant all that. Let us allow that the Countess's moustache and imperial are a nameless species of growth. I do not attach much importance to the point, you understand. She has a chin of heartbreaking fertility, that is all.
Madame F—To return to what we were saying, how is it that the men who are strongest, most courageous, most manly—soldiers, in fact—are precisely those who have most beard?
Madame H—That is nonsense, for then the pioneers would be braver than
the Generals; and, in any case, there is not in France, I am sure, a
General with as much beard as a Capuchin. You have never looked at a
Capuchin then?