Two Friends
Paris was blockaded, famished, at the last gasp. Sparrows were getting scarce on the roofs, and the sewers were depleted of their rats. People were eating anything.
As he was strolling sadly along the outer boulevard on a fine January morning, with his hands in the pockets of his military trousers, and his stomach empty, Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by profession, and a man of his ease when he had the chance, came face to face with a brother in arms whom he recognized as a friend, and stopped. It was Monsieur Sauvage, an acquaintance he had met on the river.
Before the war Morissot had been in the habit of starting out at dawn every Sunday, rod in hand, and a tin box on his back. He would take the train to Argenteuil, get out at Colombes, then go on foot as far as the Island of Marante. The moment he reached this place of his dreams he would begin to fish, and fish till nightfall. Every Sunday he met there a little round and jovial man, Monsieur Sauvage, a draper of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, also an ardent fisherman. They would often pass half the day side by side, rod in hand, feet dangling above the stream, and in this manner had become fast friends. Some days they did not talk, other days they did. But they understood each other admirably without words, for their taste and feelings were identical.
On spring mornings, about ten o’clock, when the young sun was raising a faint mist above the quiet-flowing river, and blessing the backs of those two passionate fishermen with the pleasant warmth of a new season, Morissot would sometimes say to his neighbour: “I say, isn’t it heavenly?” and Monsieur Sauvage would reply: “Couldn’t be jollier!” which was quite enough to make them understand and like each other.
In autumn, as the day was declining, when the sky, reddened by the glow of the setting sun, and crimson clouds were reflected in the water, the whole river stained with colour, the horizon flaming, when our two friends looked as red at fire, and the trees, already russet and shivering as the touch of winter, were turned to gold, Monsieur Sauvage would look smilingly at Morissot, and remark: “What a sight!” and Morissot, not taking his eyes off his float, would reply ecstatically: “It beats the boulevard, eh?”
As soon as they recognized each other, they shook hands heartily, quite moved at meeting again in such different circumstances. With a sigh Monsieur Sauvage murmured: “Nice state of things!” Morissot, very gloomy, groaned: “And what weather! Today’s the first fine day this year!”
The sky was indeed quite blue and full of light.
They moved on, side by side, ruminative, sad. Morissot pursued his thought: “And fishing, eh? What jolly times we used to have!”
“When shall we go fishing again?” asked Monsieur Sauvage.
They entered a little café, took an absinthe together, and started off once more, strolling along the pavement.
Suddenly Morissot halted: “Another absinthe?” he said.
“I’m with you!” responded Monsieur Sauvage. And in they went to another wine-shop. They came out rather lightheaded, affected as people are by alcohol on empty stomachs. The day was mild, and a soft breeze caressed their faces.
Monsieur Sauvage, whose lightheadedness was completed by the fresh air, stopped short: “I say—suppose we go!”
“What d’you mean?”
“Fishing!”
“Where?”
“Why, at our island. The French outposts are close to Colombes. I know Colonel Dumoulin; he’ll be sure to let us pass.”
Morissot answered, quivering with eagerness: “All right; I’m on!” And they parted, to get their fishing gear.
An hour later they were marching along the high road. They came presently to the villa occupied by the Colonel, who, much amused by their whim, gave them leave. And furnished with his permit, they set off again.
They soon passed the outposts, and, traversing the abandoned village of Colombes, found them selves at the edge of the little vineyard fields that run down to the Seine. It was about eleven o’clock.
The village of Argenteuil, opposite, seemed quite deserted. The heights of Orgemont and Sannois commanded the whole countryside; the great plain stretching to Nanterre was empty, utterly empty of all but its naked cherry-trees and its grey earth.
Monsieur Sauvage jerking his thumb towards the heights, muttered: “The Prussians are up there!” And disquietude stole into the hearts of the two friends, looking at that deserted country. The Prussians! They had never seen any, but they had felt them there for months, all round Paris, bringing ruin to France, bringing famine; pillaging, massacring; invisible, yet invincible. And a sort of superstitious terror was added to their hatred for this unknown and victorious race.
Morissot stammered: “I say—suppose we were to meet some?”
With that Parisian jocularity which nothing can repress Monsieur Sauvage replied: “We’d give ’em some fried fish.”
None the less, daunted by the silence all round, they hesitated to go farther.
At last Monsieur Sauvage took the plunge. “Come on! But be careful!”
They got down into a vineyard, where they crept along, all eyes and ears, bent double, taking cover behind every bush.
There was still a strip of open ground to cross before they could get to the riverside; they took it at the double, and the moment they reached the bank plumped down amongst some dry rushes.
Morissot glued his ear to the ground for any sound of footsteps. Nothing! They were alone, utterly alone.
They plucked up spirit again, and began to fish.
In front of them the Island of Marante, uninhabited, hid them from the far bank. The little island restaurant was closed, and looked as if it had been abandoned for years.
Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Morissot the second, and every minute they kept pulling in their lines with a little silvery creature wriggling at the end. Truly a miraculous draught of fishes!
They placed their spoil carefully in a very fine-meshed net suspended in the water at their feet, and were filled by the delicious joy that visits those who know once more a pleasure of which they have been deprived too long.
The good sun warmed their shoulders; they heard nothing, thought of nothing, were lost to the world. They fished.
But suddenly a dull boom, which seemed to come from underground, made the earth tremble. The bombardment had begun again.
Morissot turned his head. Away above the bank he could see on the left the great silhouette of Mont Valérien, showing a white plume in its cap, a puff of smoke just belched forth. Then a second spurt of smoke shot up from the fort’s summit, and some seconds afterwards was heard the roar of the gun.
Then more and more. Every minute the hill breathed out death, sending forth clouds of white smoke, which rose slowly to the calm heaven, and made a crown of cloud.
Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. “At it again!” he said.
Morissot, who was anxiously watching the bobbing of his float, was seized with the sudden fury of a man of peace against these maniacs battering at each other, and he growled out: “Idiots I call them, killing each other like that!”
“Worse than the beasts!” said Monsieur Sauvage.
And Morissot, busy with a fish, added: “It’ll always be like that, in my opinion, so long as we have governments.”
Monsieur Sauvage cut him short. “The Republic would never have declared war—”
Morissot broke in: “Under a monarchy you get war against your neighbours; under a republic—war amongst yourselves.”
And they began tranquilly discussing and unravelling momentous political problems with the sweet reasonableness of peaceable, ignorant men, who agreed at any rate on one point, that Man would never be free.
And Mont Valérien thundered without ceasing, shattering with its shells the homes of France, pounding out life, crushing human beings, putting an end to many a dream, to many an expected joy, to many a hope of happiness; opening everywhere, too, in the hearts of wives, of girls, of mothers, wounds that would never heal.
“Such is life!” declared Monsieur Sauvage.
“You mean ‘such is death,’ ” said Morissot, and laughed.
They both gave a sudden start; there was surely someone coming up behind them. Turning their eyes they saw, standing close to their very elbows, four men, four big bearded men, dressed in a sort of servant’s livery, with flat caps on their heads, pointing rifles at them.
The rods fell from their hands and floated off downstream.
In a few seconds they were seized, bound, thrown into a boat, and taken over to the island.
Behind the house that they had thought deserted they perceived some twenty German soldiers.
A sort of hairy giant, smoking a great porcelain pipe, and sitting astride of a chair, said in excellent French: “Well, gentlemen, what luck fishing?”
Whereupon a soldier laid at his officer’s feet the net full of fish, which he had carefully brought along.
The Prussian smiled. “I see—not bad. But we’ve other fish to fry. Now listen to me, and keep cool. I regard you two as spies sent to watch me. I take you, and I shoot you. You were pretending to fish, the better to disguise your plans. You’ve fallen into my hands; so much the worse for you. That’s war. But, seeing that you passed through your outposts, you must assuredly have been given the password to get back again. Give it me, and I’ll let you go.”
Livid, side by side, the two friends were silent, but their hands kept jerking with little nervous movements.
The officer continued: “No one will ever know; it will be all right; you can go home quite easy in your minds. If you refuse, it’s death—instant death. Choose.”
They remained motionless, without a word.
The Prussian, calm as ever, stretched out his hands towards the water, and said: “Think! In five minutes you’ll be at the bottom of that river. In five minutes. You’ve got families, I suppose?”
Mont Valérien went on thundering. The two fishermen stood there silent.
The German gave an order in his own language. Then he moved his chair so as not to be too near his prisoners. Twelve men came forward, took their stand twenty paces away, and grounded arms.
The officer said: “I give you one minute; not a second more.”
And, getting up abruptly, he approached the two Frenchmen, took Morissot by the arm, and, drawing him aside, whispered: “Quick, that password. Your friend need never know. It will only look as if I’d relented.” Morissot made no answer.
Then the Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage apart, and asked him the same question.
Monsieur Sauvage did not reply.
Once again they were side by side. The officer gave a word of command. The soldiers raised their rifles.
At that moment Morissot’s glance alighted on the net full of gudgeons lying on the grass a few paces from him. The sunshine was falling on that glittering heap of fishes, still full of life. His spirit sank. In spite of all effort his eyes filled with tears.
“Goodbye, Monsieur Sauvage!” he stammered out.
Monsieur Sauvage answered: “Goodbye, Monsieur Morissot.”
They grasped each other’s hands, shaken from head to foot by a trembling that they could not control.
“Fire!” cried the officer.
Twelve shots rang out as one.
Monsieur Sauvage fell forward like a log. Morissot, the taller, wavered, spun around, and came down across his comrade, his face upturned to the sky; blood spurted from his tunic, torn across the chest.
The German gave another order. His men dispersed. They came back with ropes and stones, which they fastened to the feet of the two dead friends, whom they carried to the river bank. And Mont Valérien never ceased rumbling, crowned now with piled-up clouds of smoke.
Two of the soldiers took Morissot by the head and heels, two others laid hold of Monsieur Sauvage in the same manner. The bodies, swung violently to and fro, were hurled forward, described a curve, then plunged upright into the river, where the stones dragged them down feet first.
The water splashed up, foamed, and rippled, then fell calm again, and tiny waves rolled out towards the banks.
A few bloodstains floated away.
The officer, calm as ever, said quietly: “Now it is the fishes’ turn!” and went back towards the house.
But suddenly catching sight of the net full of gudgeons on the grass, he took it up, looked it over, smiled, and called out: “Wilhelm!”
A soldier in a white apron came running up. The Prussian threw him the spoil of the two dead fishermen.
“Get these little things fried at once while they’re still alive. They will be delicious.”
And he went back to his pipe.