“Here’s rod and line for you, Monsieur Mouillard, all ready baited,” broke in Jupille. “If you’ll come with me I’ll show you a good place.” “No, no, Jupille, I’m going to keep him,” answered M. Flamaran; “I haven’t uttered a syllable for three hours. I must let myself out a little. We will fish side by side, and chat.” “As you please, Monsieur Flamaran; but I don’t call that fishing.” He handed me the implement, and sadly went his way. M. Flamaran and I sat down together on the bank, our feet resting on the soft sand strewn with dead branches. Before us spread the little pool I have mentioned, a slight widening of the stream of the Bievre, once a watering-place for cattle. The sun, now at high noon, massed the trees’ shadow close around their trunks. The unbroken surface of the water reflected its rays back in our eyes. The current was barely indicated by the gentle oscillation of a few water-lily leaves. Two big blue dragonflies poised and quivered upon our floats, and not a fish seemed to care to disturb them. “Well,” said M. Flamaran, “so you are still managing clerk to Counsellor Boule?” “For the time.” “Do you like it?” “Not particularly.” “What are you waiting for?” “For something to turn up.” “And carry you back to Italy, I suppose?” “Then you know I have just been there?” “I know all about it. Charnot told me of your meeting, and your romantic drive by moonlight. By the way, he’s come back with a bad cold; did you know that?” I assumed an air of sympathy: “Poor man! When did he get back?” “The day before yesterday. Of course I was the first to hear of it, and we spent yesterday evening together. It may surprise you, Mouillard, and you may think I exaggerate, but I think Jeanne has come back prettier than she went.” “Do you really think so?” “I really do. That southern sun--look out, my dear Mouillard, your line is half out of water--has brought back her roses (they’re brighter than ever, I declare), and the good spirits she had lost, too, poor girl. She is cheerful again now, as she used to be. I was very anxious about her at one time. You know her sad story?” “Yes.” “The fellow was a scoundrel, my dear Mouillard, a regular scoundrel! I never was in favor of the match, myself. Charnot let himself be drawn into it by an old college friend. I told him over and over again, ‘It’s Jeanne’s dowry he’s after, Charnot--I’m convinced of it. He’ll treat Jeanne badly and make her miserable, mark my words.’ But I wasted my breath; he wouldn’t listen to a word. Anyhow, it’s quite off now. But it was no slight shock, I can tell you; and it gave me great pain to witness the poor child’s sufferings.” “You are so kind-hearted, Monsieur Flamaran!”