“Ah.” Would he never stop his gabbling and get away?
“Yes. He wishes me to go to him. I think I shall some day. But there is the sea to cross, and I have never seen it. You have crossed the sea, monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“But I should not like his trade, monsieur. I am fond of birds and animals—but not in cages; oh no, not in cages. It is like imprisonment, is it not, monsieur? And here in Russia one does not speak lightly of prisons.”
“No.” I gave him nothing but monosyllables, but his chatter seemed to thrive on it.
“No, I should not like his trade,” and he shook his head dolefully. “I have a heart, monsieur, and if I went there I think I should ruin him. I should want to let the birds out of their cages, monsieur.”
A new interest in him and his chatter sprang to life in my thoughts. I looked up sharply, and caught his eyes fixed on me with an inscrutable expression in them. Did he mean anything by the words?
“A kind heart is a good thing,” I said.
“Yes, monsieur, but”—he sighed—“it is sometimes liable to get one into trouble.” He had finished now with even his pretence of packing the things together, and he paused and said, “You are a prisoner, monsieur?”
“It looks like it.”