Crainquebille is painfully touching; the next little story, Putois, is both witty and pregnant with meaning.
"Lucien," says Zoé to her brother, Monsieur Bergeret, "you remember Putois?"
"I should say so. Of all the familiar figures of our childhood, no other is still so vividly before my eyes. He had a peculiarly high head."
"And low forehead," adds Mademoiselle Zoé.
And now brother and sister intone in turn, with perfect seriousness, as if they were giving a description for legal purposes: "Low forehead," "Wall-eyed," "Unable to look one in the face," "Wrinkles at the corner of the eyes," "Thin," "Rather round-shouldered," "Feeble in appearance, but in reality extraordinarily strong—able to bend a five-franc piece between his first finger and thumb," "Thumb enormous," and many other particulars.
Monsieur Bergeret's daughter Pauline asks: "What was Putois?" and is told that he was a gardener, the son of respectable country people; that he started a nursery at Saint-Omer, but, proving unsuccessful with it, had to take work where he could find it; and that his character was none of the best. When Monsieur Bergeret the elder missed anything from his writing-table he always said: "I have a suspicion that Putois has been here."
"Is that all?" asks Pauline.
"No, my child, that is not all. The remarkable thing about Putois was that, well as we knew him, he nevertheless...."
"Did not exist," said Zoé.
"How can you say such a thing!" cried Monsieur Bergeret. "Are you prepared to answer for your words, Zoé? Have you sufficiently reflected upon the conditions of existence and all the modes of being?"