He clapped his hands impatiently.
He had never been ambitious, that is very sure, and, even at that moment, he told the truth. Nevertheless, the next day, after a night spent in talking to Philomène, he said to her:
“Next year, Philomène, if the tomtit comes back, let me know. It is decidedly inconvenient.”
But the tomtit never came again—and neither did the letter from the bishop!
JEAN GOURDON’S FOUR DAYS By Émile Zola
SPRING
On that particular day, at about five o’clock in the morning, the sun entered with delightful abruptness into the little room I occupied at the house of my uncle Lazare, parish priest of the hamlet of Dourgues. A broad yellow ray fell upon ray closed eyelids, and I awoke in light.
My room, which was whitewashed, and had deal furniture, was full of attractive gaiety. I went to the window and gazed at the Durance, which traced its broad course amidst the dark green verdure of the valley. Fresh puffs of wind caressed my face, and the murmur of the trees and river seemed to call me to them.