He had no particular employment in M.de Bergenheim's house; he went on errands, cared for the gardens, and doctored the mules and horses; he was a tall man, about as much at ease in his clothing as a dry almond in its shell.
A long, dark, yellow coat usually hung about the calves of his legs, which were covered with long, blue woollen stockings, and looked more like vine-poles than human legs; a conformation which furnished daily jokes for the other servants, to which the old man deigned no response save a disdainful smile, grumbling through his teeth, "Menials, peasants without education." This latter speech expressed the late gardener's scorn, for it had been his greatest grief to pass for an uneducated man; and he had gathered from his various conditions a singularly dignified and pretentious way of speaking.
In spite of his self-confidence, it was not without some emotion that Leonard Rousselet responded to this call to appear in the drawing-room before the person he most feared in the chateau.

His bearing showed this feeling when he presented himself at the drawing-room door, where he stood as grave and silent as Banquo's ghost.

Constance arose at sight of this fantastic figure, barked furiously and darted toward a pair of legs for which she seemed to share the irreverence of the liveried servants; but the texture of the blue stocking and the flesh which covered the tibia were rather too hard morsels for the dowager's teeth; she was obliged to give up the attack and content herself with impotent barks, while the old man, who would gladly have given a month's wages to break her jaw with the tip of his, boot, caressed her with his hand, saying, "Softly, pretty dear! softly, pretty little creature!" in a hypocritical tone.
This courtier-like conduct touched the old lady's heart and softened the severe look upon her face.
"Stop your noise, Constance," said she, "lie down beside your mistress.
Rousselet, come nearer." The old man obeyed, walking across the floor with reverential bows, and taking a position like a soldier presenting arms.
"You were the one," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, "who was sent to Remiremont yesterday?
Did you perform all the commissions that were given you ?" "It is not among the impossibilities, Mademoiselle, that I may have neglected some of them," replied the old man, fearing to compromise himself by a positive affirmative.
"Tell us, then, what you did." Leonard wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator, and, balancing himself upon his legs in a way not at all Bourbonic, he said: "I went to the city that morning myself because Monsieur le Baron had said the night before that he should hunt to-day, and that the groom was to help Monsieur le Baron drive a wild boar out of the Corne woods.
I reached Remiremont; I went to the butcher's; I purchased five kilogrammes of dressed goods--" "Of dressed goods at the butcher's!" exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim.
"I would say ten pounds of what uneducated people call pork," said Rousselet, pronouncing this last word in a strangled voice.
"Pass over these details," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.

"You went to the post-office." "I went to the post-office, where I put in letters for Mademoiselle, Madame, Monsieur le Baron, and one from Mademoiselle Aline for Monsieur d'Artigues." "Aline writing to her cousin! Did you know that ?" said the old aunt, turning quickly toward her niece.
"Certainly; they correspond regularly," replied Clemence with a smile which seemed to say that she saw no harm in it.
The old maid shook her head and protruded her under lip, as much as to say: We will attend to this another time.
Madame de Bergenheim, who was out of patience at this questioning, began to speak in a quick tone which was a contrast to her aunt's solemn slowness.
"Rousselet," said she, "when you took the newspapers out of the office, did you notice whether the wrappers were intact, or whether they had been opened ?" The good man half concealed his face in his cravat at this precise questioning, and it was with embarrassment that he replied, after a moment's hesitation: "Certainly, Madame--as to the wrappers--I do not accuse the postmaster--" "If the journals were sealed when you received them, you are the only one who could have opened them." Rousselet straightened himself up to his full height, and, giving to his nut-cracker face the most dignified look possible, he said in a solemn tone: "With due deference to you, Madame, Leonard Rousselet is well known.
Fifty-seven years old on Saint-Hubert's day, I am incapable of opening newspapers.

When they have been read at the chateau and they send me with them to the cure, I do not say--perhaps on my way--it is a recreation--and then the cure is Jean Bartou, son of Joseph Bartou, the tilemaker.