Monseigneur (languidly). Ah! Out there?
Beppo. It is the place I always go to, when I myself am feeling wretchedly.
Monseigneur. Wretchedly? Thou?
Beppo. Sometimes.
Monseigneur (tenderly). Hungry?
Beppo. Hunger is nothing. But to be restless, dissatisfied; not often, but still sometimes. To feel oneself a beggar, an outcast, friendless; to be neither of the palace nor the hovel, yet to know oneself a part of each. In a word, Philippe, to feel oneself nothing; just the foam on the surface of the river, the bubble that breaks and vanishes even before the broad stream is aware of its existence.
Monseigneur. Thou hast such feelings? Thou?
Beppo. Sometimes. But when they come I take them where they always pass, and I am cured—as I will cure thee.
Monseigneur (smiles). And where is it?—this wonderful healing-place of thine.
Beppo. Out there—not far—on the warm slope below the Black Dog bastion. Thou knowest it; beneath the great lilac bush, where this morning I found for thee the baby thrushes.