his hat. Then he looked amazed at the pale face in the glass before him, and especially at his mustachios, which had attained a rich growth in the course of near seven weeks, since they had come into the world. They will mistake me for a military man, thought he, remembering Isidor's warning, as to the massacre with which all the defeated British army was threatened; and staggering back to his bed-chamber, he began wildly pulling the bell which summoned his valet.
Isidor answered that summons. Jos had sunk in a chair—he had torn off his neckcloths, and turned down his collars, and was sitting with both his hands lifted to his throat.
"Coupez-moi, Isidor," shouted he; "vite! Coupez-moi!"
Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and that he wished his valet to cut his throat.
"Les moustaches" gasped Jos; "les moustaches—coupy, rasy, vite!"—his French was of this sort—voluble, as we have said, but not remarkable for grammar.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Vanity_Fair_D339.png/340px-Vanity_Fair_D339.png)
Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the razor, and heard with inexpressible delight his master's orders that he should fetch a hat