III
Just then René-Jean, satisfied with the result of his investigations of the woodlouse, raised his head and affirmed,—
“It is a female.”
Georgette’s laughter made René-Jean laugh, and Gros-Alain laughed because his brother did.
Georgette having effected her object and joined her brothers, they sat round upon the floor as in a sort of diminutive chamber, but their friend the woodlouse had vanished.
It had taken advantage of Georgette’s laughter and hidden itself away in a crack.
Other events followed the visit of the woodlouse.
First some swallows flew by.
Their nests were probably under the eaves. They flew quite close to the window, somewhat startled at the sight of the children, describing great circles in the air, and uttering their sweet spring note. This made the three children look up, and the woodlouse was forgotten.
Georgette pointed her finger at the swallows, crying,—
“Biddies!”
René-Jean reprimanded her,—
I “You mustn’t say ‘biddies,’ missy; you must say ‘birds.’”
“‘Bir’s,’” said Georgette.
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.”
“A f’y,’” said Georgette.
Then Gros-Alain, who had just found a string on the floor with a knot in the end, took the other end between his thumb and his forefinger, and having made a sort of windmill of the string, he was deeply absorbed in watching its whirling.
Georgette on her part, having returned to her former character of quadruped, and started again on her capricious journeys across the floor, had discovered a venerable arm-chair, with moth-eaten upholstery, from which the horse-hair was falling out in several places. She had stopped before this arm-chair, and was carefully enlarging the holes and pulling out the horse-hair.
Suddenly she raised her finger to attract her brothers’ attention and make them listen.
They turned their heads.
A vague far-away sound could be heard outside: probably the attacking camp executing some strategic manoeuvre in the forest; there was a neighing of horses, a beating of drums, a rolling to and fro of caissons, a clanking of chains, and military calls and responses echoed on every side,—a confusion of wild sounds, whose combination resulted in a sort of harmony; the children listened in delight.
“It is the good God who does that,” said Gros-Alain.