—No, said the bullfinch, he's not an artist; with his silver breeches, he's more of a prince.
—He's more of a prince, said the bullfinch.
—He's neither an artist nor a prince, interrupted an old nightingale, who had sang all season in the district's gardens…. I know what he is; he's a Sub-Prefect!
And the whole woodland came alive with the rumour:
—He's a Sub-Prefect! He's a Sub-Prefect!
—He's bald! remarked a crested lark.
The violets asked:
—Is he a bad man?
—Is he a bad man? asked the violets.
The old nightingale replied: