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Updated: June 20, 2025
Mme Putois had attacked the basket of linen prepared by Gervaise, and Augustine was ironing her towels, with her nose in the air, deeply interested in a fly that was buzzing about. As to Clemence, she was polishing off her thirty-fifth shirt; as she boasted of this great feat Coupeau staggered toward her.
La Paumelle who was getting lively, clapped her hands; la Jean-Jean left off answering the Baron's numerous questions, and la Putois uttered grunts of pleasure, half cries and half sighs, like little children do when one shows them sweets. 'Allow me to take charge of this animal, the Curé said.
When Gervaise went back into the shop, the squint-eyed Augustine was being properly chastised by Clemence because of a dirty iron that Madame Putois had used and which had caused her to soil a camisole. Clemence, in defending herself for not having cleaned her iron, blamed Augustine, swearing that it wasn't hers, in spite of the spot of burned starch still clinging to the bottom.
'If the description by Xenomanes, he said, 'is more learned and richer in unusual and choice expressions, the description of Putois greatly surpasses it in clarity and simplicity of style. He held this opinion because Doctor Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet explained chapters thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two of the fourth book of Rabelais." "I do not understand at all," said Pauline.
Madame Putois began to work on the petticoat again. "Well, good-bye," said Virginie. "I only came out for a quarter-pound of Swiss cheese. Poisson must think I've frozen to death on the way." She had only just stepped outside when she turned back to say that Augustine was at the end of the street, sliding on the ice with some urchins.
He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first finger and the thumb. There were good reasons for attributing to him a long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been arrested and locked up in prison.
"I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: "'What do you call your gardener, dearest? "'Putois, answered my mother without hesitation. "Putois was named. From that time he existed.
Then she rolled the things up and placed them at the bottom of a square basket, after dipping her hand in a pail and shaking it over the portions of the shirts and drawers which she had not starched. "This basketful's for you, Madame Putois," she said. "Look sharp, now! It dries at once, and will want doing all over again in an hour." Madame Putois, a thin little woman of forty-five, was ironing.
To maintain that Putois did not 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.
"Really, Coupeau, you're too foolish," said she, with a vexed air, as though she were scolding a child who persisted in eating his jam without bread. "You must go to bed." "Yes, go to bed, Monsieur Coupeau; it will be far better," exclaimed Madame Putois. "Ah! Well," stuttered he, without ceasing to chuckle, "you're all precious particular! So one mustn't amuse oneself now?
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