Putois | Page 5

'Journal of Saint-Omer' devoted an article to the three melons of
Madame Cornouiller, and published a portrait of Putois from
descriptions furnished by the town. 'He has,' said the paper, 'a low
forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty glance, crow's-feet, sharp
cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to the ears. Thin, somewhat bent,
feeble in appearance, in reality he is unusually strong. He easily bends
a five-franc piece between the first finger and the thumb.' There were
good reasons for attributing to him a long series of robberies committed

with surprising dexterity. The whole town was talking of Putois. One
day it was learned that he had been arrested and locked up in prison.
But it was soon recognized that the man that had been taken for him
was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As no charge could be brought
against him, he was discharged after fourteen months of detention on
suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. Madame Cornouiller
was the victim of another robbery, more audacious than the first. Three
small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. She recognized in
this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door of her bedroom, and
was unable to sleep....
About ten o'clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room,
Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: "Do not forget to relate how
Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller's cook."--"I was thinking of it, my
sister," answered Monsieur Bergeret. "To omit it would be to lose the
best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was
carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it
was known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty
to find him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many
shrewd ones at Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen
simultaneously in the streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another
trait was thus added to his character. He was accorded the gift of
ubiquity, the attribute of many popular heroes. A being capable of
leaping long distances in a moment, and suddenly showing himself at
the place where he was least expected, was honestly frightening. Putois
was the terror of Saint-Omer. Madame Cornouiller, convinced that
Putois had stolen from her three melons and three little spoons, lived in
a state of fear, barricaded at Montplaisir. Bolts, bars, and locks did not
reassure her. Putois was for her a frightfully subtle being who could
pass through doors. Trouble with her servants redoubled her fear. Her
cook having been betrayed, the time came when she could no longer
hide her misfortune. But she obstinately refused to name her
betrayer."--"Her name was Gudule," said Mademoiselle Zoe.--"Her
name was Gudule, and she believed that she was protected from danger
by a long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. The sudden
appearance of a beard protected the innocence of that holy daughter of
the king that Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, did not

suffice to protect the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller urged
Gudule to tell her the man. Gudule burst into tears, but kept silent.
Prayers and menaces had no effect. Madame Cornouiller made a long
and circumstantial inquiry. She adroitly questioned her neighbors and
tradespeople, the gardener, the street-sweeper, the gendarmes; nothing
put her on the track of the culprit. She tried again to obtain from
Gudule a complete confession. 'In your own interest, Gudule, tell me
who it is.' Gudule remained mute. All at once a ray of light flashed
through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: 'It is Putois!' The cook cried,
but did not answer. 'It is Putois! Why did I not guess it sooner? It is
Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!' and Madame Cornouiller
remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at Saint-Omer, from
the judge to the lamplighter's dog, knew Gudule and her basket At the
news that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled with surprise,
wonder, and merriment....
With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached
to our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and
it was believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He
was never seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his
shadow, his voice, his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw
his back in the twilight, at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he
gradually changed in character. He remained mischievous and
malevolent, but he became childlike and very ingenuous. He became
less real and, I dare say, more poetical. He entered in the artless Cycle
of childish traditions. He became more like Croquemitaine,* like Père
Fouettard, or the sand man who closes the children's eyes when evening
comes.