The president interrupted him.
“Come to the point as quickly as possible.”
The accused went on:
“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it. Well, on Saturday the 8th of July, we left by the 5:25 train, and before dinner we went to set our bait, like we did every Saturday. The weather promised to be fine. I said to Mélie: ‘Thumbs up for tomorrow.’ And she answered: ‘It looks like it.’ We never have any more to say to each other.
“And then we came back and had dinner. I was happy and thirsty. That’s to blame for the whole thing, Mr. President. I said to Mélie: ‘Well, Mélie, it wouldn’t be a bad notion if I had a bottle of nightcap.’ That’s a thin white wine we’ve christened that because if you drink too much of it, it keeps you from sleeping and takes the place of a nightcap. You understand.
“She answered: ‘You can do as you like, but you’ll be ill again; and you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.’ What she said was true, it was sensible, it was prudent, it was farsighted, I grant you that. But all the same, I couldn’t restrain myself; and I drank my bottle. That began the whole trouble.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep. God, it kept me awake until two o’clock! And then, pouf, I fell asleep, but I slept so that I couldn’t have heard the angel blow the last trump on the day of judgment.
“To cut a long story short, my wife woke me at six. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my trousers and jersey as quick as I could; a dash of water on my ugly mug and we jumped into the Dalila. Too late. When I reached my hole, there was someone there. Such a thing had never happened before, Mr. President, never in all the three years. It felt as if I’d had my pocket picked under my nose. I said: ‘Damn and blast it!’ And then my wife began to nag at me. ‘You and your nightcap. Get out, you drunken swine. You great beast, I hope you’re satisfied.’
“I had nothing to say: It was all true.
“All the same, I tied up near the spot, to try and get what fish were left. Maybe the man wouldn’t have any luck and then he’d clear off.
“He was a little skinny fellow, in white ducks, with a big straw hat. He had his wife with him too, a fat woman who was sitting sewing behind him.
“When she saw us installing ourselves near the spot, she muttered:
“ ‘Is this the only place on the river?’
“And my wife, who was furious, answered: ‘Decent folk find out what’s what in a place before pushing themselves into other people’s preserves.’
“As I didn’t want a row, I said to her:
“ ‘Hold your tongue, Mélie, let them be, let them be, we’ll see what happens.’
“Well, we drew Dalila up under the willows, and we stepped ashore and began to fish side by side, Mélie and I, right alongside the two others.
“At this point, Mr. President, I must go into details. We hadn’t been there five minutes before our neighbour’s line was tugged twice, three times, and then, look you, he got a carp, fat as my thigh, not quite so fat maybe, but nearly. My heart jumped; a sweat broke out on me, and Mélie said to me: ‘Look, you gaumless idiot, do you see that?’
“At this moment, M. Bru, the grocer from Poissy, who knows a bit about gudgeon, came past in his sailing-boat and shouted to me: ‘Has someone taken your place, M. Renard?’ ‘Yes, M. Bru,’ I answered. ‘There are some lowbred people in this world who don’t know what’s what.’
“The little cotton-back beside me pretended not to hear, and his wife the same, his great fat wife, a cow of a woman.”
Once more the president interrupted: “Be careful what you say. You are insulting Mme. Flamèche, the widow, here present.”
Renard began excuses. “I beg pardon, my feelings made me forget myself.
“Well, not a quarter of an hour passed before the little cotton-back got another carp—and another right on top of that, and, five minutes later, another.
“I tell you there were tears in my eyes. I could see Mme. Renard was boiling with rage: she went on at me all the time. ‘Look, you miserable fool, can’t you see, he’s robbing you of your fish? Can’t you see? You’ll not get anything, not even a frog, not a single thing, nothing. Oh, my hands itch to get at them, only to think about it.’
“I kept saying: ‘Wait till noon. The poacher will go away for lunch, and I’ll get my place back.’ Because, Mr. President, I lunched on the spot every Sunday. We carried provisions in the Dalila. Ouch! Twelve struck. He had a bird wrapped up in newspaper, the scoundrel, and while he was eating, he got another carp, he did.
“Mélie and I swallowed a few bites, next to nothing, we hadn’t the heart to eat.
“Then I began to read my paper to digest my lunch. I read Gil-Blas every Sunday like that, in the shade on the bank of the river. It is Colombine’s day, as you know, Colombine, who writes the articles
