and Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, though her lips were closed.
Pauline looked first at one then at the other. It seemed to her odd that her aunt should laugh so heartily, and odder still that she should laugh at the same thing as her brother; for strange to say the minds of the brother and sister moved in different grooves.
"Tell me who Putois was, papa. Since you want me to know, tell me."
"Putois, my child, was a gardener. The son of honest farmers of Artois, he had set up as a nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But he was unable to please his customers and failed in business. He gave up his nursery and went out to work by the day. His employers were not always satisfied."
At these words, Mademoiselle Bergeret, still laughing, remarked:
"You remember, Lucien, when father couldn't find his ink-pot, his pens, his sealing-wax or his scissors on his desk, how he used to say: 'I think Putois must have been here'."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Bergeret, "Putois had not a good reputation."
"Is that all?" asked Pauline.
"No, my child, it is not all. There was something
