I was walking one dark night on the bank of the river near Ambialet, when a glare of lurid light suddenly shot up from the water some distance in front of me, illuminating the willows, and even the black woods, on each side of the gorge.  I imagined myself at once in a Canadian forest, near an Indian camp-fire.  The light came gliding in my direction, and presently I distinguished the forms of men in a boat, all lit up by the glare.  One was punting; another was holding aloft, not a torch, but blazing brushwood—­which I afterwards learnt was broom-that he replenished from a heap in the boat; and a third was in the stern, gazing intently at the water, and holding in his hand a staff, which he plunged from time to time to the bottom of the stream.  I understood that this was the peche au flambeau, of which I had already heard.

The Tarn being in summer shallow, and of crystal clearness except in time of flood, it offers every facility for this kind of fishing.  The flat-bottomed boat glides along with the current; the fish, dazzled by the sudden light, sink at once to the bottom, and lie there stupefied until they are either speared or the cause of their bewilderment passes on.  The spear head used is a small trident.  When the moon is up, the fish are not to be fascinated by artificial light; consequently the darkest nights are chosen for this kind of poaching.

The two gendarmes, then, had been looking for poachers, and, not liking the weather, they had been unable to resist the auberge light that beckoned them indoors.  While they were talking, in walked the most hardened and skilful poacher of the place, whose acquaintance I had made earlier in the day, and who made no secret to me of his business.  So far from being abashed by the presence of the gendarmes, he gave them a genial salutation, and, sitting down beside them, talked to them as if he had been on the pleasantest terms with them for years.  He was a man of about fifty, who boasted to me that he had been a poacher from the age of fifteen, and had never been caught.  He was therefore an artful old fox, and one very difficult to run down.  He made the most of his opportunities in all seasons, and laughed at those who troubled their heads about the months which were open or closed.  His coolness in the presence of the gendarmes was charming.  He actually offered to furnish the brigadier with a dish of trout at any time on a day’s notice, and argued that they had no right to seize a net wherever found, because the meshes were not of the lawful size.  ‘If you doubt it,’ said the brigadier, ‘just show me yours.’  Then he added with a grin:  ‘I shall pinch you some day, mon vieux.’  The other did not seem to believe it, and I am inclined to think that no one will ‘pinch’ him but Death.