I hid myself behind the trees whose leafage concealed the wall.
M. Charnot was evidently pleased with the view before him, and turned from side to side, gently smacking his lips like an epicure. And, in truth, my uncle’s garden was perfection; the leaves, washed by the rain, were glistening in the fulness of their verdure, great drops were falling from the trees with a silvery tinkle, the petunias in the beds were opening all their petals and wrapping us in their scent; the birds, who had been mute while the shower lasted, were now fluttering, twittering, and singing beneath the branches. I was like one bewitched, and thought these very birds were discussing us. The greenfinch said:
“Old Mouillard, look! Here’s Princess Goldenlocks at your garden gate.”
The tomtit said:
“Look out, old man, or she’ll outwit you.”
The blackbird said:
“I have heard of her from my grandfather, who lived in the Champs Elysees. She was much admired there.”
The swallow said:
“Jeanne will have your heart in the time it takes me to fly round the lawn.”
The rook, who was a bit of a lawyer, came swooping down from the cathedral tower, crying: