Their faces had become blotchy in the dew of night, and their
little maman with her pigtail had left them to their fate. In another
garden a woman's parasol and flower-trimmed hat lay on a rustic seat
with an open book beside them. I imagined a lady of France called
suddenly away from an old romance of false sentiment by the visit of
grim reality--the first sound of the enemy's guns, faint but terrible to
startled ears.
"Les Allemands sont tout pres!"
Some harsh voice had broken into the quietude of the garden on the
Seine, and the open book, with the sunshade and the hat, had been
forgotten in the flight.
Yet there was one human figure here on the banks of the Seine
reassuring in this solitude which was haunted by the shadow of fear.
It was a fisherman. A middle-aged man with a straw hat on the back
of his head and a big pair of spectacles on the end of his nose, he
held out his long rod with a steady hand and waited for a bite, in an
attitude of supreme indifference to Germans, guns, hatred, tears and
all the miserable stupidities of people who do not fish. He was at
peace with the world on this day of splendour, with a golden sun and
a blue sky, and black shadows flung across the water from the tree
trunks.
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