His recovery was clear.
She sat at the window and inhaled with quivering nostrils the sharp fragrance of the burning pine cones that floated to her in bluish waves.
The sun was about to set. An unknown bird sat, far below, in the orange grove and, as if drunk with light and fragrance, chirped sleepily and ended with a fluting tone.
Now that the great dread of the last few days was taken from her, that sweet languor the significance of which she could not guess came over her again.
Her neighbour had already come home. She opened her window and closed it, only to open it again. From time to time she sang a few brief tones, almost like the strange bird in the grove.
Then her door rattled and Angeline's voice cried out with jubilant laughter: "Une lettre, Madame, une lettre!"
"Une lettre—de qui?"
"De lui!"
Then a silence fell, a long silence.
Who was this "he?" Surely some one at home. It was the hour of the mail delivery.