[Illustration: 222]
JEAN set out betimes in the morning with his sister Jeanne, a
fishing-pole over his shoulder and a basket on his arm. It is holiday
time and the school is shut; that is why Jean goes off every day with
his sister Jeanne, a rod over his shoulder and a basket on his arm,
along the river bank. Jean is a Tourainer, and Jeanne a lass of
Touraine. The river is Tourainer too. It runs crystal-clear between
silvery sallows under a moist, mild sky. Morning and evening white mists
trail over the grass of the water-meadows.’ But Jean and Jeanne love the
river neither for the greenery of its banks nor its clear waters that
mirror the heavens. They love it for the fish in it. They stop presently
at the most likely place, and Jeanne sits down under a pollard
willow. Laying down his baskets, Jean unwinds his tackle. This is very
primitive--a switch, with a piece of thread and a bent pin at the end
of it. Jean supplied the rod, Jeanne gave the line and the hook; so the
tackle is the common property of brother and sister. Both want it all
to themselves, and this simple contrivance, only meant to do mischief to
the fishes, becomes the cause of domestic broils and a rain of blows by
the peaceful riverside. Brother and sister fight for the free use of
the rod and line. Jean’s arm is black and blue with pinches and Jeanne’s
cheek scarlet from her brother’s slaps. At last, when they were tired of
pinching and hitting, Jean and Jeanne consented to share amicably what
neither could appropriate by force. They agreed that the rod should pass
alternately from the brother’s hands to the sister’s after each fish
they caught.
Jean begins. But there’s no knowing when he will end. He does not break
the treaty openly, but he shirks its consequences by a mean trick.
Rather than have to hand over the tackle to his sister, he refuses to
catch the fish that come, when they nibble the bait and set his float
bobbing.
Jean is artful; Jeanne is patient. She has been waiting six hours. But
at last she seems tired of doing nothing. She yawns, stretches, lies
down in the shade of the willow, and shuts her eyes. Jean spies her out
of one corner of his, and he thinks she is asleep. The float dives.
He whips out the line, at the end of which gleams a flash of silver. A
gudgeon has taken the pin.
“Ah! it’s my turn now,” cries a voice behind him.
And Jeanne snatches the rod.