Then he took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief.
“My old friend, Papineau, is well?” he asked.
“In the best of health,” said David.
“How many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?”
“Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday. The flock has had ill fortune. To that number it has decreased from eight hundred and fifty.”
“You have a wife and a home, and lived in comfort. The sheep brought you plenty. You went into the fields with them and lived in the keen air and ate the sweet bread of contentment. You had but to be vigilant and recline there upon nature’s breast, listening to the whistle of the blackbirds in the grove. Am I right thus far?”
“It was so,” said David.
“I have read all your verses,” continued Monsieur Bril, his eyes wandering about his sea of books as if he conned the horizon for a sail. ‘‘Look yonder, through that window, Monsieur Mignot; tell me what you see in that tree.”
“I see a crow,” said David, looking.
“There is a bird,” said Monsieur Bril, “that shall assist me where I am disposed to shirk a duty. You know that bird, Monsieur Mignot; he is the philosopher of the air. He is happy through submission to his lot. None so merry or full-crawed as he with his whimsical eye and rollicking step. The fields yield him what he desires. He never grieves that his plumage is not gay, like the oriole’s. And you have heard, Monsieur Mignot, the notes that nature has given him? Is the nightingale any happier, do you think?”
