“I thought you never were coming.”

“That shows you don’t know me.  Any sport?”

“Not so loud!  Yes, capital sport.  I’ll bait a line for you.”

“And where is your friend, Monsieur Jupille?”

“There he is.”

“Where?”

“Staring you in the face; can’t you see him?”.

Upon my word, I could see nobody, until he directed my gaze with his fishing-rod, when I perceived, ten yards away, a large back view of white trousers and brown, unbuckled waistcoat, a straw hat which seemed to conceal a head, and a pair of shirt-sleeves hanging over the water.

This mass was motionless.

“He must have got a bite,” said Jupille, “else he would have been here before now.  Go and see him.”

Not knowing whom I was about to address, I gave a warning cough as I came near him.

The unknown drew a loud breath, like a man who wakes with a start.

“That you, Jupille?” he said, turning a little way; “are you out of bait?”

“No, my dear tutor, it is I.”

“Monsieur Mouillard, at last!”

“Monsieur Flamaran!  Jupille told the truth when he said I should be surprised.  Are you fond of fishing?”

“It’s a passion with me.  One must keep one or two for one’s old age, young man.”

“You’ve been having sport, I hear.”

“Well, this morning, between eight and nine, there were a few nibbles; but since then the sport has been very poor.  However, I’m very glad to see you again, Mouillard.  That essay of yours was extremely good.”

The eminent professor had risen, displaying a face still red from his having slept with his head on his chest, but beaming with good-will.  He grasped my hand with heartiness and vigor.

“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?”