might not escape him, if anyone should pass the line marked by the
horizon. He had sacrificed his shirt to make a flag with, which he
hung at the top of a palm tree, whose foliage he had torn off. Taught
by necessity, he found the means of keeping it spread out, by
fastening it with little sticks; for the wind might not be blowing at
the moment when the passing traveler was looking through the desert.

It was during the long hours, when he had abandoned hope, that he
amused himself with the panther. He had come to learn the different
inflections of her voice, the expressions of her eyes; he had studied
the capricious patterns of all the rosettes which marked the gold of
her robe. Mignonne was not even angry when he took hold of the tuft at
the end of her tail to count her rings, those graceful ornaments which
glittered in the sun like jewelry. It gave him pleasure to contemplate
the supple, fine outlines of her form, the whiteness of her belly, the
graceful pose of her head. But it was especially when she was playing
that he felt most pleasure in looking at her; the agility and youthful
lightness of her movements were a continual surprise to him; he
wondered at the supple way in which she jumped and climbed, washed
herself and arranged her fur, crouched down and prepared to spring.
However rapid her spring might be, however slippery the stone she was
on, she would always stop short at the word "Mignonne."

One day, in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed through the
air. The man left his panther to look at his new guest; but after
waiting a moment the deserted sultana growled deeply.

"My goodness! I do believe she's jealous," he cried, seeing her eyes
become hard again; "the soul of Virginie has passed into her body;
that's certain."