A FRIEND OF THE COMMUNE
“See, madame—there, on the Hill of Pains, the long finger of the Semaphore! One more prisoner has escaped—one more.”
“One more, Marie. It is the life here that on the Hill, this here below; and yet the sun is bright, the cockatoos are laughing in the palms, and you hear my linnet singing.”
“It turns so slowly. Now it points across the Winter Valley. Ah!”
“Yes, across the Winter Valley, where the deep woods are, and beyond to the Pascal River.”
“Towards my home. How dim the light is now! I can only see It—like a long dark finger yonder.”
“No, my dear, there is bright sunshine still; there is no cloud at all: but It is like a finger; it is quivering now, as though it were not sure.”
“Thank God, if it be not sure! But the hill is cloudy, as I said.”
“No, Marie. How droll you are! The hill is not cloudy; even at this distance one can see something glisten beside the grove of pines.”