“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny? He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. You are very fortunate.”
“Fortunate; how?”
“To live amongst these splendid trees.”
“Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not safe.”
“Why? on account of their loneliness, do you mean?”
“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.”
“Not a soul.”
“Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor?”
“Not since I have been here.”
“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers?”