exist,
that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions
of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it
is true that his was a peculiar existence."

"I understand less and less," said Pauline, discouraged.

"The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that
Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a
little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our
parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by
an old lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of
Montplaisir, twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of
my mother's. By right of relationship she insisted that our father
and mother come to dine every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were
excessively bored. She said that it was the proper thing to have a
family dinner on Sunday and that only people of common origin failed to
observe this ancient custom. My father was bored to the point of tears
at Montplaisir. His desperation was painful to contemplate. But Madame
Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw nothing, My mother was braver.
She suffered as much as my father, and perhaps more, but she smiled."

"Women are made to suffer," said Zoe.

"Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents
refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take
them each Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was
an obligation from which there was absolutely no escape. It was an
established order that only a revolt could break. My father finally
revolted and swore not to accept another invitation from Madame
Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother to find decent pretexts and varied
reasons for these refusals, for which she was the least capable. Our
mother did not know how to pretend."

"Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as
any one."

"It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than
invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at
table: 'Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go
to Montplaisir for some time'?"

"That was true!" said Zoe.

"You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother:
Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at
Montplaisir.' Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame
Cornouiller a good reason for declining, inv