Read only the story of the Sorrow of an Old Galley Slave.
This old man, who has been in prison many times, is at last being sent out to New Caledonia. ‘Old as I am, could they not have let me die in France?’ he says to our friend Yves (Mon Frére Yves), who is gone with his gunboat to take a band of these prisoners from the shore to the ship in which they are to make their voyage. Encouraged by the sympathy of Yves in his impending exile, the old felon shows him his one treasure; it is a little cage with a sparrow in it.
‘It is a tame bird, that knows his voice, and has learnt to sit on his shoulder. It was a year with him in his cell, and with great difficulty he has obtained permission to carry it with him to Caledonia, and, the permission once obtained, with what trouble he has made a little cage for it to travel in, to get the bits of wood and wire necessary, and a little green paint to brighten it and make it look pretty!
‘“Poor sparrow!” says Yves to me afterwards when he tells me this tale. “It had only a few crumbs of prison bread such as they give to convicts, but he seems quite happy all the same. He jumps about gaily like any other bird.”
‘Later still, as the train reaches the transport ship, he, who has forgotten for the moment the old man and the sparrow, passes by the former, who holds out to him the little cage. “Take it,” says the old prisoner, in a changed voice. “I give it to you; perhaps you may like to use it.”
‘“No, no,” says Yves, astonished. “You know you are going to take it with you. The bird will be your little comrade there.”
‘“Ah,” answers the old man, “he is no longer in it. Did you not know? He is no longer here.”
‘And two tears of unspeakable grief rolled down his withered cheeks.
‘During a rough moment of the crossing the door of the cage had blown open, the sparrow had fluttered, frightened, and in a second of time had fallen into the sea, his wings, which had been clipped, not being able to sustain him.
‘Oh, that moment of horrible pain! To see the little thing struggle and sink, borne away on the tearing tide, and to be unable to do anything to save him! At first, in a natural movement of appeal, he was on the point of crying for help, of begging them to stop the boat, of entreating for pity, for aid; but his impulse is checked by the consciousness of his own personal degradation. Who would have pity on a miserable old man like him? Who would care for his little drowning bird? Who would hearken to his prayer?