And, all three watched the swallows.
Then a bee flew in.
Nothing reminds one of the human soul more than the bee, which goes from flower to flower as a soul from star to star, gathering honey as the soul absorbs the light.
This one came buzzing in with an air of great stir, as if it said: "Here I am; I have just seen the roses, and now I have come to see the children. What is going on here, I should like to know?"
A bee is a housekeeper, scolding as it hums.
As long as the bee stayed, the children never once moved their eyes from it.
It explored the entire library, rummaging in every corner, flying about quite as if it were at home in its hive; winged and melodious, it darted from case to case, peering through the glass at the titles of the books, just as if it had a brain, and having paid its visit, it flew away.
"It has gone home," said René-Jean.
"It is an animal," remarked Gros-Alain.
"No," replied René-Jean, "it is a fly."