“Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me.”
“Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest market-gardeners, he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But he did not satisfy his customers and got in a bad way. Having given up business, he went out by the day. Those who employed him could not always congratulate themselves.”
At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined;
“Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his pens, his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: ‘I suspect Putois has been here’?”
“Ah!” said Monsieur Bergeret, “Putois had not a good reputation.”
“Is that all?” asked Pauline.
“No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that while we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless—”
“—He did not exist,” said Zoe.
Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach.
“What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it is true that his was a peculiar existence.”