“What kind of lead did you take, Maillochon?” Labouise asked.

“Very small, number nine; that’s the best for rabbits.”

They were approaching the other shore so slowly, so quietly that no noise betrayed them.  This bank belongs to the Saint-Germain forest and is the boundary line for rabbit hunting.  It is covered with burrows hidden under the roots of trees, and the creatures at daybreak frisk about, running in and out of the holes.

Maillochon was kneeling in the bow, watching, his gun hidden on the floor.  Suddenly he seized it, aimed, and the report echoed for some time throughout the quiet country.

Labouise, in a few strokes, touched the beach, and his companion, jumping to the ground, picked up a little gray rabbit, not yet dead.

Then the boat once more disappeared into the fog in order to get to the other side, where it could keep away from the game wardens.

The two men seemed to be riding easily on the water.  The weapon had disappeared under the board which served as a hiding place and the rabbit was stuffed into Chicot’s loose shirt.

After about a quarter of an hour Labouise asked:  “Well, sister, shall we get one more?”

“It will suit me,” Maillochon answered.

The boat started swiftly down the current.  The mist, which was hiding both shores, was beginning to rise.  The trees could be barely perceived, as through a veil, and the little clouds of fog were floating up from the water.  When they drew near the island, the end of which is opposite Herblay, the two men slackened their pace and began to watch.  Soon a second rabbit was killed.

Then they went down until they were half way to Conflans.  Here they stopped their boat, tied it to a tree and went to sleep in the bottom of it.

From time to time Labouise would sit up and look over the horizon with his open eye.  The last of the morning mist had disappeared and the large summer sun was climbing in the blue sky.

On the other side of the river the vineyard-covered hill stretched out in a semicircle.  One house stood out alone at the summit.  Everything was silent.

Something was moving slowly along the tow-path, advancing with difficulty.  It was a woman dragging a donkey.  The stubborn, stiff-jointed beast occasionally stretched out a leg in answer to its companion’s efforts, and it proceeded thus, with outstretched neck and ears lying flat, so slowly that one could not tell when it would ever be out of sight.

The woman, bent double, was pulling, turning round occasionally to strike the donkey with a stick.

As soon as he saw her, Labouise exclaimed:  “Say, Mailloche!”

Mailloche answered:  “What’s the matter?”

“Want to have some fun?”

“Of course!”

“Then hurry, sister; we’re going to have a laugh.”

Chicot took the oars.  When he had crossed the river he stopped opposite the woman and called: