“It’s not that, Mouillard; but I have known Jeanne ever since she was born. I watched her grow up, and I loved her when she was still a little mite; she’s as good as my adoptive daughter. You understand me when I say adoptive. I do not mean that there exists between us that legal bond in imitation of nature which is permitted by our codes--‘adoptio imitatur naturam’; not that, but that I love her like a daughter--Sidonie never having presented me with a daughter, nor with a son either, for that matter.” A cry from Jupille interrupted M. Flamaran: “Can’t you hear it rattle?” The good man was tearing to us, waving his arms like a madman, the folds of his trousers flapping about his thin legs like banners in the wind. We leaped to our feet, and my first idea, an absurd one enough, was that a rattlesnake was hurrying through the grass to our attack. I was very far from the truth. The matter really was a new line, invented by M. Jupille, cast a little further than an ordinary one, and rigged up with a float like a raft, carrying a little clapper. The fish rang their own knell as they took the hook. “It’s rattling like mad!” cried Jupille, “and you don’t stir! I couldn’t have thought it of you, Monsieur Flamaran.” He ran past us, brandishing a landing-net as a warrior his lance; he might have been a youth of twenty-five. We followed, less keen and also less confident than he. He was right, though; when he drew up his line, the float of which was disappearing in jerks, carrying the bell along with it beneath the water, he brought out a fair-sized jack, which he declared to be a giant. He let it run for some time, to tire it, and to prolong the pleasure of playing it. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “it is cutting my finger off!” A stroke from the landing-net laid the monster at our feet, its strength all spent. It weighed rather under four pounds. Jupille swore to six. My learned tutor and I sat down again side by side, but the thread of our conversation had been broken past mending. I tried to talk of her, but M. Flamaran insisted on talking of me, of Bourges, of his election as professor, and of the radically distinct characteristics by which you can tell the bite of a gudgeon from that of a stickleback. The latter part of this lecture was, however, purely theoretical, for he got up two hours before sunset without having hooked a fish. “A good day, all the same,” he said. “It’s a good place, and the fish were biting this morning. We’ll come here again some day, Jupille; with an east wind you ought to catch any quantity of gudgeons.” He kept pace beside me on our way home, but wearied, no doubt, with long sitting, with the heat, and the glare from the water, fell into a reverie, from which the incidents of the walk were unable to rouse him.