“And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little square of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, recognized with dismay the improbability of her excuse.
“‘This man,’ said Madame Cornouiller, ‘could just as well work in your garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.’ One should not work on Sunday.’
“‘He works all the week.’
“I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked:
“‘What do you call your gardener, dearest?’
“‘Putois,’ answered my mother without hesitation.
“Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took herself off, murmuring: ‘Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does he live?’
“‘He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one or that one.’
“‘Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond—a good-for-nothing. Don’t trust him, dearest.’
“From that time Putois had a character.’”