Paris was besieged, starving, exhausted. The sparrows were growing scarce on the roofs and the rats in the sewers. People ate whatever they could get. As he walked listlessly along the outer boulevard on a clear January morning, his hands in the pockets of his uniform, and his stomach empty, Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by trade and a militiaman by necessity, stopped short in front of a colleague in whom he recognized a friend. It was Monsieur Sauvage, an acquaintance made at the waterside. Before the war, Morissot used to start every Sunday at daybreak, a bamboo fishing rod in his hand, a tin box on his back. He took the Argenteuil train, stopped at Colombes, then walked to Marante Island. No sooner had he reached this ideal spot than he began to fish, and he went on fishing till nightfall. Every Sunday, he found there a plump and jolly little man, Monsieur Sauvage, a haberdasher in Notre-Dame de Lorette Street, also a born fisherman. They would often spend hours, side by side, their rods in their hands, their feet hanging over the running water; and a friendship had sprung up between them. Sometimes they remained silent. Sometimes, they talked. But they understood each other perfectly, without saying a word, having identical tastes and feelings. On spring mornings, about ten o’clock, when the sun would draw from the still river a thin mist which ran along the water and poured upon the backs of the obstinate fishermen the welcome warmth of the new season, Morissot would say to his neighbor: “Isn’t it mild though?” and Monsieur Sauvage would reply: “There isn’t anything like it!” And they needed nothing more for perfect understanding and mutual esteem. In the autumn, towards nightfall, when the sky, blood red from the setting sun, reflected the shapes of the scarlet clouds in the water, tinted the whole river, set the horizon ablaze, made even the two friends as red as the flames, and turned to gold the brown trees, shivering with a wintry chill, Monsieur Sauvage would smile at Morissot, and say: “How wonderful!” And Morissot, with deep admiration, would reply, without lifting his eyes from his cork: “It’s better than the city, isn’t it?” * * * * * As soon as they recognized each other, they shook hands heartily, much excited at meeting again under such altered circumstances. Monsieur Sauvage sighed and murmured: “What strange happenings!” Morissot, much depressed, groaned: “And such weather! This is the first fine day this year.” In fact, the sky was quite blue and full of light. They walked on, side by side, thoughtful and gloomy. Morissot continued: “And our fishing, eh? What a pleasant memory!” Monsieur Sauvage asked: “When shall we ever do it again?” They went into a little cafe and drank an absinthe, then resumed their walk on the boulevard. Morissot stopped suddenly: “Let’s have another ‘verte’, eh?” Monsieur Sauvage agreed: “Just as you say.” And they went into another restaurant.