“What general?”

“General Blaumont!  We had to have a statue.  We are not ’the proud people of Gisors’ for nothing!  So we discovered General de Blaumont.  Look in this bookseller’s window.”

He drew me towards the bookstore, where about fifteen red, yellow and blue volumes attracted the eye.  As I read the titles, I began to laugh idiotically.  They read: 

Gisors, its origin, its future, by M. X. . . ., member of several learned societies; History of Gisors, by the Abbe A . . .; Gasors from the time of Caesar to the present day, by M. B. . . ., Landowner; Gisors and its environs, by Doctor C. D. . . .; The Glories of Gisors, by a Discoverer.

“My friend,” resumed Marambot, “not a year, not a single year, you understand, passes without a fresh history of Gisors being published here; we now have twenty-three.”

“And the glories of Gisors?” I asked.

“Oh, I will not mention them all, only the principal ones.  We had first General de Blaumont, then Baron Davillier, the celebrated ceramist who explored Spain and the Balearic Isles, and brought to the notice of collectors the wonderful Hispano-Arabic china.  In literature we have a very clever journalist, now dead, Charles Brainne, and among those who are living, the very eminent editor of the Nouvelliste de Rouen, Charles Lapierre . . . and many others, many others.”

We were traversing along street with a gentle incline, with a June sun beating down on it and driving the residents into their houses.

Suddenly there appeared at the farther end of the street a drunken man who was staggering along, with his head forward his arms and legs limp.  He would walk forward rapidly three, six, or ten steps and then stop.  When these energetic movements landed him in the middle of the road he stopped short and swayed on his feet, hesitating between falling and a fresh start.  Then he would dart off in any direction, sometimes falling against the wall of a house, against which he seemed to be fastened, as though he were trying to get in through the wall.  Then he would suddenly turn round and look ahead of him, his mouth open and his eyes blinking in the sunlight, and getting away from the wall by a movement of the hips, he started off once more.

A little yellow dog, a half-starved cur, followed him, barking; stopping when he stopped, and starting off when he started.

“Hallo,” said Marambot, “there is Madame Husson’s ‘Rosier’.

“Madame Husson’s ’Rosier’,” I exclaimed in astonishment.  “What do you mean?”

The doctor began to laugh.

“Oh, that is what we call drunkards round here.  The name comes from an old story which has now become a legend, although it is true in all respects.”

“Is it an amusing story?”

“Very amusing.”

“Well, then, tell it to me.”

“I will.”