But something fills him with faint alarm. He hears an indistinct call. He looks around—but sees no one. He hums to himself a song without words. Suddenly he stops, straightens himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around again.
FRANÇOIS
Who has called me?
He sees no one. He looks at the hothouse—it seems to him that some one is calling him from there.
I hear you, Monsieur Emil, I am here.
He sees no one. He frowns and cries angrily.
Who is calling me? No one here.
He looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work quietly.
They say I am deaf. But I heard some one calling me twice: "François!" "François!" No, perhaps it is my blood, making a noise in my ears.
Silence. But his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again.