I
This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that one could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of smiles and surprises.
“Lucien, do you recall Putois?” asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips pressed, bending over her work.
“Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium...”
“A low forehead,” added Mademoiselle Zoe.
And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description:
“A low forehead.”
“Squinting eyes.”
“A shifty glance.”