When they came out they were quite dazed, and ill at ease as people are who take alcohol on an empty stomach. It was very mild. A soft breeze brushed their faces. Monsieur Sauvage, whom the balmy air intoxicated still more, stopped: “Let’s go!” “Where?” “Fishing, of course.” “But where?” “To our island. The French outposts are near Colombes. I know Colonel Dumoulin; he will let us through.” Morissot was thrilled: “All right, that’s settled.” And they separated to get their fishing tackle. An hour later, they were walking along the highway. When they reached the villa where the colonel was quartered, he smiled at their request and granted it. They departed, with a pass. They were soon beyond the outposts, then they walked through deserted Colombes, and reached the small vineyards which slope toward the Seine. It was about eleven o’clock. On the opposite bank, Argenteuil seemed abandoned. The heights of Orgemont and Sannois towered above the whole countryside. The long plain which extends as far as Nanterre was empty, quite empty, with its leafless cherry trees and grayish soil. Monsieur Sauvage, pointing to the hills, murmured: “The Prussians are up there!” And a sudden dismay chilled the two friends at sight of this lonely place. The Prussians! They had never seen any, but they had felt their presence for months, around Paris, pillaging, massacring, starving France, invisible and all powerful. And a sort of superstitious terror added to their hatred of these unknown and victorious enemies. Morissot mumbled: “Say!... Suppose we should meet some of them?” Monsieur Sauvage replied, with the irrepressible drollery of the Parisian: “We might offer them a fish fry.” Still they hesitated to venture out into the open country, awed by the all-pervading silence. Finally, Monsieur Sauvage made up his mind: “Come, let’s go on, but cautiously.” They crept down through a vineyard, bending low, crawling, keeping under cover of some bushes, their eyes watchful, their ears alert. There remained a strip of bare ground between them and the river. They ran, and as soon as they reached the bank, they crouched among the dry reeds. Morissot put his ear to the ground to listen for footsteps. He heard nothing. They were alone, all alone. They took heart and began to fish. In front of them, Marante Island, also deserted, hid them from the other bank. The little restaurant was closed and looked as if it had been abandoned for years. Monsieur Sauvage took the first gudgeon. Morissot caught the next one, and every little while they would lift their rods with a small silvery object squirming at the end of the line; it was a miraculous catch. They placed the fish carefully in a fine-meshed bag which lay at their feet in the water, and they were filled with a peculiar joy which comes on finding again some long lost pleasure.