a hasty and
untruthful excuse made by a lady at a loss how to decline without offence
a very pressing invitation to dinner from a very tyrannical aunt. This
happens in a provincial town, and the lady says in effect: "Impossible,
my dear aunt. To-morrow I am expecting the gardener." And the garden
she glances at is a poor garden; it is a wild garden; its extent is
insignificant and its neglect seems beyond remedy. "A gardener! What
for?" asks the aunt. "To work in the garden." And the poor lady is
abashed at the transparence of her evasion. But the lie is told, it is
believed, and she sticks to it. When the masterful old aunt inquires,
"What is the man's name, my dear?" she answers brazenly, "His name is
Putois." "Where does he live?" "Oh, I don't know; anywhere. He won't
give his address. One leaves a message for him here and there." "Oh! I
see," says the other; "he is a sort of ne'er do well, an idler, a
vagabond. I advise you, my dear, to be careful how you let such a
creature into your grounds; but I have a large garden, and when you do
not want his services I shall find him some work to do, and see he does
it too. Tell your Putois to come and see me." And thereupon Putois is
born; he stalks abroad, invisible, upon his career of vagabondage and
crime, stealing melons from gardens and tea-spoons from pantries,
indulging his licentious proclivities; becoming the talk of the town and
of the countryside; seen simultaneously in far-distant places; pursued by
gendarmes, whose brigadier assures the uneasy householders that he "knows
that scamp very well, and won't be long in laying his hands upon him." A
detailed description of his person collected from the information
furnished by various people appears in the columns of a local newspaper.
Putois lives in his strength and malevolence. He lives after the manner
of legendary heroes, of the gods of Olympus. He is the creation of the
popular mind. There comes a time when even the innocent originator of
that mysterious and potent evil-doer is induced to believe for a moment
that he may have a real and tangible presence. All this is told with the
wit and the art and the philosophy which is familiar to M. Anatole
France's readers and admirers. For it is difficult to read M. Anatole
France without admiring him. He has the princely gift of arousing a
spontaneous loyalty, but with this difference, that the consent of our
reason has its place by the side of our