Upon which M. Bergeret made the private reflection that to the simple all things are simple, but that clear-sighted souls, who look upon things from many and divers aspects, invisible to the vulgar mind, experience the greatest difficulty in coming to a decision about even the most trivial matters. And he cudgelled his brains, trying to hit upon a name for the little living thing who was busily engaged in nibbling the fringe of the carpet. “All the names of dogs,” thought he, “preserved in the ancient treatises of the huntsmen of old, such as Fouilloux, and in the verses of our sylvan poets such as La Fontaine--Finaud, Miraut, Briffaut, Ravaud, and such-like names, are given to sporting dogs, who are the aristocracy of the kennel, the chivalry of the canine race. The dog of Ulysses was called Argos, and he was a hunter too, so Homer tells us. ‘In his youth he hunted the little hares of Ithaca, but now he was old and hunted no more.’ What we require is something quite different. The names given by old maids to their lap-dogs would be more suitable were they not usually pretentious and absurd. Azor, for instance, is ridiculous!” So M. Bergeret ruminated, calling to memory many a dog name, without being able to decide, however, on one that pleased him. He would have liked to invent a name, but lacked the imagination. “What day is it?” he asked at last. “The ninth,” replied Angélique, “Thursday, the ninth.” “Well, then!” said M. Bergeret, “can’t we call the dog Thursday, like Robinson Crusoe who called his man Friday, for the same reason?” “As Monsieur pleases,” said Angélique. “But it isn’t very pretty.” “Very well,” said M. Bergeret, “find a name for the creature yourself, for, after all, you brought him here.” “Oh, no,” said the servant. “I couldn’t find a name for him, I’m not clever enough. When I saw him lying on the straw in the kitchen, I called him Riquet, and he came up and played about under my skirts.” “You called him Riquet, did you?” cried M. Bergeret. “Why didn’t you say so before? Riquet he is and Riquet he shall remain, that’s settled. Now be off with you, and take Riquet with you. I want to work.” “Monsieur,” returned Angélique, “I am going to leave the puppy with you; I will come for him when I get back from market.” “You could quite well take him to market with you,” retorted M. Bergeret. “Monsieur, I am going to church as well.” It was quite true that she really was going to church at Saint-Exupère, to ask for a Mass to be said for the repose of her husband’s soul. She did that regularly once a year, not that she had ever been informed of the decease of Borniche, who had never communicated with her since his desertion, but it was a settled thing in the good woman’s mind that Borniche was dead. She had therefore no fear of his coming to rob her of the little she had, and did her best to fix things up to his advantage in the other world, so long as he left her in peace in this one.