One bright January morning Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by trade but under the present circumstances a man of enforced leisure, was walking disconsolately along the outer boulevard with an empty stomach and his hands in his uniform2 trouser pockets when he stopped in his tracks, recognizing a comrade-in-arms, an old angler friend of his, Monsieur Sauvage.

Every Sunday before the war Morissot used to leave home at daybreak carrying a bamboo fishing rod in his hand and a tin lunch-box on his back. He would take the Argenteuil train, get off at Colombes and walk to the island of Marante.3 The minute he arrived at this, for him, idyllic spot he started to fish and went on fishing till night fell. There too, every Sunday, he used to meet a jolly, portly little man by the name of Monsieur Sauvage, a haberdasher on the rue de Lorette4 who was also a keen fisherman. Many a half-day they spent sitting side by side with their fishing-rods in their hands and their feet dangling over the water. Over the years they had become great friends.

Some days they would spend the whole time in silence. Sometimes they would have a chat. Having very similar tastes and feeling very much the same way about things in general, they got on well without the need for a great deal of talk.

On spring mornings at about ten o’clock when a fine mist was rising and drifting over the smooth surface of the river and the sun of the new season felt deliciously warm on the backs of the two happy fishermen, Morissot would say to his companion: ‘This is the life, eh?’

And Monsieur Sauvage would reply: ‘This is the life all right.’

That was all they needed to say for a perfect and respectful understanding to exist between them. In the autumn, towards the end of the day when the setting sun reddened the sky, stained the river crimson and reflected scarlet clouds upon water, when the fiery flames of the horizon lit up the profiles of the two friends and gilded the trees, already russet and shivering as though it was winter, Monsieur Sauvage would smile at Monsieur Morissot and declare: ‘What a sight, eh?’

And Morissot, marvelling too but with one eye always on his float, would reply: ‘Beats the old boulevard every time, don’t you think?’

As soon as they recognized each other they shook hands warmly, each struck by such a huge change in their circumstances. Monsieur Sauvage heaved a deep sigh and murmured, ‘Some mess we’re in!’

Morissot groaned in reply: ‘Some weather, too! First fine day we’ve had all year.’

The sky was indeed a bright, unclouded blue.

They walked on side by side, both sad and thoughtful.

‘Remember the fishing?’ Morissot continued. ‘Those were the days, eh?’

Monsieur Sauvage asked, ‘I wonder if we’ll ever get back, don’t you?’