December 11th.
This morning, on going to take up the snares at the end of my garden, I found a pigeon. It astonished me. Tame pigeons do not remain on deserted roofs, and till now I had only caught wood-pigeons. This one was really a tame pigeon, plump, with pink claws and back, and brown and white wings. The wire had not maimed it; it was merely numbed with cold. I brought it in to the fire, and there, as I held it in both hands—for, like a tame creature, it made not the slightest struggle—I discovered some printed numbers on one of its wings, 523, and lower down, Société de l’Espérance. Then under the feathers I found a quill rather thicker than the others, and rolled up, fastened to it, a tiny sheet of very thin paper. I had caught a carrier-pigeon! Did it come from Paris or the provinces? Was it the messenger of victory or defeat, good or bad news? . . . For a long time I gazed at it with almost superstitious awe. Let loose in the room, he quietly went about pecking between the tiles. By degrees his feathers puffed out in the warmth and his strength returned. Then I opened the window wide, and placed him on the sill. He remained there a moment looking up at the sky, stretching out his neck, trying to find his bearings. At last he rose straight into the air, and having reached a certain height, white against the surrounding gloom, he sharply turned towards Paris. Ah! if I could only take the same road . . .
