He sat on the stone bench in the shade of the cypresses, looking very
lean, small and grey, and yet resembling Sabaoth, who is a little tired
and is amusing himself by trying to whistle in tune with a chaffinch.
The bird sang in the darkness of the thick foliage: he peered up at it,
screwing up his sharp little eyes, and, pursing his lips like a child,
he whistled incompetently.
"What a furious little creature. It's in a rage. What bird is it?"