CONCLUSION. 
At the very moment that I am about to pen the conclusion of 
this book, our illustrious master arrives from his great autumnal 
sport. Toussenel brings me a nightingale. 
I had requested him to assist me with his advice, to guide me in 
choosing a singing nightingale. He does not write, but he comes ; 
he does not advise, he looks about, finds, gives, realizes my dream. 
This, of a truth, is friendship. 
Be welcome, bird, both for the sake of the cherished hand which 
brings thee, and for thy own, for thy hallowed muse, the genius 
which dwells within thee! 
Wilt thou sing readily for me, and, by thy puissance of love and 
calm, shed harmony on a heart troubled by the cruel history of men ? 
It was an event in our family, and we established the poor artist- 
prisoner in a window-niche, but enveloped with a curtain; in such 
wise that, being both in solitude and yet in society, he might 
gradually accustom himself to his new hosts, reconnoitre the locality, 
and assure himself that he was under a safe, a peaceful, and benevo- 
lent roof. 
No other bird lived in this saloon. Unfortunately, my familiar 
robin, which flies freely about my study, penetrated into the apart- 
