Suddenly there appeared at the farther end of the street a drunken man who was staggering along, with his head forward his arms and legs limp. He would walk forward rapidly three, six, or ten steps and then stop. When these energetic movements landed him in the middle of the road he stopped short and swayed on his feet, hesitating between falling and a fresh start. Then he would dart off in any direction, sometimes falling against the wall of a house, against which he seemed to be fastened, as though he were trying to get in through the wall. Then he would suddenly turn round and look ahead of him, his mouth open and his eyes blinking in the sunlight, and getting away from the wall by a movement of the hips, he started off once more.
A little yellow dog, a half-starved cur, followed him, barking; stopping when he stopped, and starting off when he started.
“Hallo,” said Marambot, “there is Madame Husson's 'Rosier'.
“Madame Husson's 'Rosier',” I exclaimed in astonishment. “What do you mean?”
The doctor began to laugh.
“Oh, that is what we call drunkards round here. The name comes from an old story which has now become a legend, although it is true in all respects.”
“Is it an amusing story?”
“Very amusing.”
“Well, then, tell it to me.”
“I will.”