A small bird flutters above you, as you sit under the only tree in your walled garden, far away from everything and everybody. The bird slowly descends and settles on your knee. You feel the sharpness of its small claws. “I am hungry,” it says shamelessly. “Why, what can I offer to you?” The bird looks around, as though apprehending that somebody may overhear your conversation, and says in a lowered voice: “I suck human blood.” It pains you that you are not amazed or afraid… “All right,” you say and you roll up the sleeve of your shirt, exposing a network of blue veins. The bird jumps up readily and pierces your skin. It sucks vigorously. It does not hurt you much. For a moment you are puzzled by the fact that you do not feel afraid of not being able to remove it… But very soon the bird pulls out its bloody beak, satisfied. It is a small bird, you conclude, your confidence restored. The bird hops back on your knee and says: “You are very hospitable indeed; I must repay your hospitality.” The bird cleans it beak. It adds casually: “Tell me one wish.” Without hesitation you respond that you do not need anything and that you have not a single wish. The bird flutters heavily to the lowest branch of your tree: “You are not even curious of who I am?” You nod, confirming this. “Then you think that you know?” You nod again. “You are wrong,” says the bird, “you are my dream.”

Addendum (July 24, 1996)

Le miracle serait pour moi qu’un petit oiseau s’approchât pour me dire quelques mots.

From Jules Renard’s Journal: 1906-1910, Tome IV, Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1984 , p. 1099.