Two Friends
Paris was blockaded, famished, at the last gasp. Sparrows were getting scarce on the roofs, and the sewers were depleted of their rats. People were eating anything.
As he was strolling sadly along the outer boulevard on a fine January morning, with his hands in the pockets of his military trousers, and his stomach empty, Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by profession, and a man of his ease when he had the chance, came face to face with a brother in arms whom he recognized as a friend, and stopped. It was Monsieur Sauvage, an acquaintance he had met on the river.
Before the war Morissot had been in the habit of starting out at dawn every Sunday, rod in hand, and a tin box on his back. He would take the train to Argenteuil, get out at Colombes, then go on foot as far as the Island of Marante. The moment he reached this place of his dreams he would begin to fish, and fish till nightfall. Every Sunday he met there a little round and jovial man, Monsieur Sauvage, a draper of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, also an ardent fisherman. They would often pass half the day side by side, rod in hand, feet dangling above the stream, and in this manner had become fast friends. Some days they did not talk, other days they did. But they understood each other admirably without words, for their taste and feelings were identical.
On spring mornings, about ten o’clock, when the young sun was raising a faint mist above the quiet-flowing river, and blessing the backs of those two passionate fishermen with the pleasant warmth of a new season, Morissot would sometimes say to his neighbour: “I say, isn’t it heavenly?” and Monsieur Sauvage would reply: “Couldn’t be jollier!” which was quite enough to make them understand and like each other.
In autumn, as the day was declining, when the sky, reddened by the glow of the setting sun, and crimson clouds were reflected in the water, the whole river stained with colour, the horizon flaming, when our two friends looked as red at fire, and the trees, already russet and shivering as the touch of winter, were turned to gold, Monsieur Sauvage would look smilingly at Morissot, and remark: “What a sight!” and Morissot, not taking his eyes off his float, would reply ecstatically: “It beats the boulevard, eh?”
As soon as they recognized each other, they shook hands heartily, quite moved at meeting again in such different circumstances. With a sigh Monsieur Sauvage murmured: “Nice state of things!” Morissot, very gloomy, groaned: “And what weather! Today’s the first fine day this year!”
The sky was indeed quite blue and full of light.
They moved on, side by side, ruminative, sad. Morissot pursued his thought: “And fishing, eh? What jolly times we used to have!”
“When shall we go fishing again?” asked Monsieur Sauvage.
They entered a little café, took an absinthe together, and started off once more, strolling along the pavement.
Suddenly Morissot halted: “Another absinthe?” he said.
“I’m with you!” responded Monsieur Sauvage. And in they went to another wine-shop. They came out rather lightheaded, affected as people are by alcohol on empty stomachs. The day was mild, and a soft breeze caressed their faces.
Monsieur Sauvage, whose lightheadedness was completed by the fresh air, stopped short: “I say—suppose we go!”
“What d’you mean?”
“Fishing!”
“Where?”
“Why, at our island. The French outposts are close to Colombes. I know Colonel Dumoulin; he’ll be sure to let us pass.”
Morissot answered, quivering with eagerness: “All right; I’m on!” And they parted, to get their fishing gear.
An hour later they were marching along the high road. They came presently to the villa occupied by the Colonel, who, much amused by their whim, gave them leave. And furnished with his permit, they set off again.
They soon passed the outposts, and, traversing the abandoned village of Colombes, found them selves at the edge of the little vineyard fields that run down to the Seine. It was about eleven o’clock.
The village of Argenteuil, opposite, seemed quite deserted. The heights of Orgemont and Sannois commanded the whole countryside; the great plain stretching to Nanterre was empty, utterly empty of all but its naked cherry-trees and its grey earth.
Monsieur Sauvage jerking his thumb towards the heights, muttered: “The Prussians are up there!” And disquietude stole into the hearts of the two friends, looking at that deserted country. The Prussians! They had never seen any, but they had felt them there for months, all round Paris, bringing ruin to France, bringing famine; pillaging, massacring; invisible, yet invincible. And a sort of superstitious terror was added to their hatred for this unknown and victorious race.
Morissot stammered: “I say—suppose we were to meet some?”
With that Parisian jocularity which nothing can repress Monsieur Sauvage replied: “We’d give ’em some fried fish.”
None the less, daunted by the silence all round, they hesitated to go farther.
At last Monsieur Sauvage took the plunge. “Come on! But be careful!”
They got down into a vineyard, where they crept along, all eyes and ears, bent double, taking cover behind every bush.
There was still a strip of open ground to cross before they could get to the riverside; they took it at the double, and the moment they reached the bank plumped down amongst some dry rushes.
Morissot glued his ear to the ground for any sound of footsteps. Nothing! They were alone, utterly alone.
They plucked up spirit again, and began to fish.
In front of them the Island of Marante, uninhabited, hid them from the far bank. The little island restaurant was closed, and looked as if it had been abandoned for years.
Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Morissot the second, and every minute they kept pulling in their lines with a little silvery creature wriggling at the end. Truly a miraculous draught of fishes!
They placed their spoil carefully in a very fine-meshed net suspended in the water at their feet, and were filled
