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“Gentlemen of the council, I have in mind a candidate suitable in all respects for the parish of X——; but I think it would be well, at least, to offer that charge and that honor to one of our oldest priests, the abbe of St. Philemon. He will undoubtedly refuse it, and his modesty, no less than his age, will be the cause; but we shall have shown, as far as we could, our appreciation of his virtues.”

The five councilors approved unanimously, and that very evening a letter was sent from the palace, signed by the bishop, and which contained in a postscript: “Answer at once, my dear abbe; or, better, come to see me, because I must submit my appointments to the government within three days.”

The letter arrived at St. Philemon the very day the tomtits were hatched. The postman had difficulty in slipping it into the slit of the box, but it disappeared inside and lay touching the base of the nest, like a white pavement at the bottom of the dark chamber.

The time came when the tiny points on the wings of the little tomtits began to be covered with down. There were fourteen of them, and they twittered and staggered on their little feet, with their beaks open up to their eyes, never ceasing, from morning till night, to wait for food, eat it, digest it, and demand more. That was the first period, when the baby birds hadn’t any sense. But in birds it doesn’t last long. Very soon they quarrelled in the nest, which began to break with the fluttering of their wings, then they tumbled out of it and walked along the side of the box, peeped through the slit at the big world outside, and at last they ventured out.

The abbe of St. Philemon, with a neighboring priest, attended this pleasant garden party. When the little ones appeared beneath the roof of the box–two, three–together and took their flight, came back, started again, like bees at the door of a hive, he said:

“Behold, a babyhood ended and a good work accomplished. They are hardy and strong, every one.”

The next day, during his hour of leisure after dinner, the abbe came to the box with the key in his hand. “Tap, tap,” he went. There was no answer. “I thought so,” said he. Then he opened the box and, mingled with the debris of the nest, the letter fell into his hands.

“Good Heavens!” said he, recognizing the writing. “A letter from the bishop; and in what a state! How long has it been here?”

His cheek grew pale as he read.

“Philomene, harness Robin quickly.”

She came to see what was the matter before obeying.

“What have you there, sir?”

“The bishop has been waiting for me three weeks!”

“You’ve missed your chance,” said the old woman.

The abbe was away until the next evening. When he came back he had a peaceful air, but sometimes peace is not attained without effort and we have to struggle to keep it. When he had helped to unharness Robin and had given him some hay, had changed his cassock and unpacked his box, from which he took a dozen little packages of things bought on his visit to the city, it was the very time that the birds assembled in the branches to tell each other about the day. There had been a shower and the drops still fell from the leaves as they were shaken by these bohemian couples looking for a good place to spend the night.

Recognizing their friend and master as he walked up and down the gravel path, they came down, fluttered about him, making an unusually loud noise, and the tomtits, the fourteen of the nest, whose feathers were still not quite grown, essayed their first spirals about the pear-trees and their first cries in the open air.

The abbe of St. Philemon watched them with a fatherly eye, but his tenderness was sad, as we look at things that have cost us dear.

“Well, my little ones, without me you would not be here, and without you I would be dead. I do not regret it at all, but don’t insist. Your thanks are too noisy.”

He clapped his hands impatiently.

He had never been ambitious, that is very sure, and, even at that moment, he told the truth. Nevertheless, the next day, after a night spent in talking to Philomene, he said to her:

“Next year, Philomene, if the tomtit comes back, let me know. It is decidedly inconvenient.”

But the tomtit never came again–and neither did the letter from the bishop!