And so the poor sick thing has not a
single pleasure in the world. She can't read, because it makes her head
ache, she says; and she never writes to any one. One day she tried to
sing a little, but it seemed to hurt her, and she stopped before she had
begun almost. Yes, m'sieu', there she is without a single pleasure in the
long hours when she doesn't sleep."
"There's my canary--that would cheer her up," eagerly said Jean Jacques,
who, as the story of the chirruping landlady continued, became master of
his agitation, and listened as though to the tale of some life for which
he had concern. "Yes, take my canary to her, madame. It picked me up when
I was down. It'll help her--such a bird it is! It's the best singer in
the world. It's got in its throat the music of Malibran and Jenny Lind
and Grisi, and all the stars in heaven that sang together. Also, to be
sure, it doesn't charge anything, but just as long as there's daylight it
sings and sings, as you know."
"M'sieu'--oh, m'sieu', it was what I wanted to ask you, and I didn't
dare!" gushingly declared madame. "I never heard a bird sing like
that--just as if it knew how much good it was doing, and with all the
airs of a grand seigneur. It's a prince of birds, that. If you mean it,
m'sieu', you'll do as good a thing as you have ever done."
"It would have to be much better, or it wouldn't be any use," remarked
Jean Jacques.
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