Another episode.
There are, in civil life, men whose appearance is precisely that of a soldier. Though they have never seen service, every one who meets them and does not know them takes them without hesitation for veterans. They have the rather stiff carriage, firm step, disciplined appearance, and concealed good-fellowship belonging to the profession. They are specially common in the mixed services, such as the customs, the waters and forests, which, though purely civil in their nature, borrow their degrees of rank and their methods from the system
adopted for the army. On the one hand, these men have, like private citizens, a family and a domestic life; on the other, they are bound in a thousand ways by the manifold requirements of an entirely military rule. To this is due the peculiar appearance of which I speak, and with which every one is familiar.
If, then, you have ever seen a brave cavalry officer in citizen’s dress, with his short hair and his bristly moustache beginning to turn gray; if you have noticed in his energetic features those straight and vertical lines which are hardly as yet wrinkles, and which seem peculiar to these military faces; if you have gazed upon that forehead, rebellious to the hat, and which seems made expressly for the kepi or tricorne, upon those firm eyes which by day are accustomed to brave danger, but by night become gentle at the fireside as they rest upon the children’s heads; if you remember this characteristic type, I have no need to introduce you to M. Roger Lacassagne, officer in the custom-house at Bordeaux—you know him as well as I.
When, about two years ago, I had the honor of visiting him at his house, Rue du Chai des Farines, No. 6, at Bordeaux, I was struck at first by his severe appearance and his air of reserve.
He asked me, with the somewhat brusque politeness habitual to men of discipline, what was the object of my visit.
“Monsieur,” said I, “I have heard the story of your journey to the Grotto of Lourdes, and for the profit of some inquiries I am just now making, I have come to have it from your own mouth.”
At the words “the Grotto of Lourdes,” this stern countenance became tender, and a dear remembrance softened its rigid lines.
“Be seated,” said he, “and excuse the disorder of our establishment. My family leaves to-day for Arcachou, and everything is topsy-turvy.”
“Do not mention it. Tell me all about these interesting events of which I have already heard, but only confusedly.”