ut 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?'--'Puto