Putois | Page 6

*The national "bugaboo" or "bogy man."
It was not that imp that tangled the colts' tails at night in the stable.
Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, he made
ink mustaches on my sister's dolls. In our bed, before going to sleep, we
listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with the dogs,
he filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs of belated
drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and familiar to

us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of him was
associated with all the objects about us. Zoe's dolls, my school books,
in which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the
garden wall, over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow;
the blue porcelain jar that he cracked one winter's night, unless it was
the frost; the trees, the streets, the benches--everything recalled Putois,
the children's Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not equal in
grace and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of Sicily or
Thessaly. But he was still a demigod. He had quite a different character
for our father; he was symbolical and philosophical. Our father had
great compassion for men. He did not think them altogether rational;
their mistakes, when they were not cruel, amused him and made him
smile. The belief in Putois interested him as an epitome and a summary
of all human beliefs. As he was ironical and a joker, he spoke of Putois
as if he were a real being. He spoke with so much insistence sometimes,
and detailed the circumstances with such exactness, that my mother
was quite surprised and said to him in her open-hearted way: 'One
would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: you know well,
however...' He replied gravely: 'All Saint-Omer believes in the
existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One
should look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.' Only
a perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a
Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public
sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois,
but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the melons
and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the existence
of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in his
explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so in
this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible man.
* A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus.
"As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of
Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child
of our mother's invention, as Caliban was the poet's invention. Without
doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than
Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her

little falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve
such a prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over
town and threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned
pale, believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That
day, a servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to
her that a man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. 'What
man is it?'--'A man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.'--'Did he give
his name?'--'Yes, Madame.'--'Well! what is his name?'--'Putois.'--'He
told you that was his name?'--'Putois, yes, Madame.'--'He is
here?'--'Yes, Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.'--'You saw
him?'--'Yes, Madame.'--'What does he want?'--'He did not say. He will
only tell Madame.'--'Go ask him.'
"When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This
meeting of the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from
that day I think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might
well exist and that she had not told a falsehood after all."

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