But he would hop on her shoulder, and put his little round head to her lips as if to ask pardon.
Then they would talk of serious matters.
“Monsieur Friquet! I say, Monsieur Friquet!”
“Chirp! chirp!”—which meant: “Well, what? I’m all attention!”
“Monsieur Friquet, I want your advice. What shall we have to eat for Sunday?”
“Chirp!”
“I hear you! Biscuit! biscuit! But people can’t live only on biscuit! We must have something else to go with it. Suppose we bought a couple of artichokes! Do you like artichokes, Monsieur Friquet? Yes? Ah! I knew an artichoke would please you. Wait here for me, and I’ll run round to the greengrocer’s.”
So the Sunday wore away in happy play and merry nonsense between the pair.
What more was needed to transform the sharp thorns of pain into fragrant roses of content? She had invested the bold little chattering fellow with all the treasures of her tenderness; on him she lavished all her care and devotion; he was father and mother and family to her, and where he was, was home.
They lived long and happily together, and their love was never interrupted.