# Nêne/Part 1/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII

THE pond of the Moulinettes was to be cleared that year. According to the terms of the land lease, the water was drawn off every third year and the fish sold. Half of the profits went to the farmer, the other half to the owner, who was likewise entitled to a fine of six carp, to be chosen, of course, from among the largest.
On Shrove Monday the sluice weir was opened. The water ran out through a cemented vent at the base of a high embarkment and flowed in a small stream to spread itself over the meadows below. By Monday evening the water had not gone down much, but by Tuesday morning a ring of mud had become visible and the fish that lived around the edge of the pond were swimming about nervously and beating the water frantically with their tails.
On Wednesday morning they began to catch the fish. At peep of dawn a caterer from Saint-Ambroise arrived at the pond with his paraphernalia.
Soon after him the youngsters of the neighbourhood began to come; first two, then another two, then ten or twelve, until there were some thirty of them, boys and girls, all bundled up any old way, and their noses red from the morning chill.
The fish were coming out now. The flow of the water carried them into the "pan," a small, shallow reservoir that was barred at the outlet by a rather fine wire netting. The first to reach the "pan" were white bait; they came on quickly in big schools, and no sooner were they in the already troubled waters of the "pan" than they seemed to realise that they had taken the wrong way and bent all their efforts on dashing back through the water gate. But the strong current carried them down and they began to dart about desperately. After them came the roach, then the bream. The "pan" was wonderfully alive and a-stir. Innumerable little brown streaks cut the surface and from time to time a big bream would come up from the bottom and, making a sharp turn, show as wide and bright as a pewter platter.
At nine o'clock they started catching. Gideon and Alexis, the new hand, had big nets. Standing on the brink of the "pan," they kept plunging them in and heaving them up, while a man behind them took the fish they brought up and dumped them into some water-filled holes in the ground that had been fixed up to receive them.
Never had the catch been so plenteous; even Michael was astonished. The reason was, probably, that they had succeeded in getting out all the pike at the last draining.
The youngsters that were hanging over the wire netting shouted: "There's some of 'em getting away! The little ones slip through." Or again "Hey, boss! Didn't you see? There were two of 'em jumped right out of the net. And there's a dead one, floating."
When a fine bream leaped out of Gideon's net and plunged into the water beyond the wire, a fat, red-faced boy of ten made up his mind all at once, shouting:
"Wait a minute! I'll show you!"
He got hold of a basket, rolled up his trouser legs and jumped into the stream. At the first sweep he caught the bream and half a dozen white bait.
"Good boy!" cried Michael; "here, catch!"
Across the wire he emptied the last of a netful—some ten or twelve white bait that dropped into the water like sparks from a rocket.
Then another lad got into the game, and still another, and all of them, or almost all. Every once in a while Michael threw them some fish and they waded about with much shouting, struggling with their baskets and battling for the best positions.
One little fellow, who had been pushed back, was in the water to his belly and shivering with cold; he was going to climb out in despair, when he caught an enormous bream. Scrambling out, he threw it on the grass like a quoit.
"How are you going to carry it?" asked Michael.
"Inside my shirt! I've got some more—see?"
He opened his shirt and showed two white bait and three or four heads of roach that he had snatched through the wire. Slipping the bream over his stomach, he added: "It's like a pancake, only it isn't hot!"
From the road by the pond a woman called:
"Féderi!"
It cut the boy's breath short:
"Oh, the devil! There's Mamma!"
The mothers were, in fact, coming down, bringing sandwiches and clean jumpers and neckties; for the boys had run off as soon as they were out of bed, without taking the trouble of eating breakfast or dressing themselves up.
When they got sight of their youngsters, there was a chorus of recrimination, but all the children were so absorbed in their fun that they paid no attention; they just stuck, resigned to a future boxing of ears.
About eleven o'clock the real "gallery" came along.
The first one was a big fellow with a red face, whose coming surprised no one. He had been nicknamed "the Otter," because he came to every pond draining, sometimes walking over ten miles to it, just to eat fresh fish.
But how he did eat! He was such an extraordinary glutton that the people round about were proud of his prowess. He stayed at table for six hours at a stretch, without speaking, without once turning his head, without even stirring the tip of his toes—just eating, eating, eating.
Lots of people would sit down opposite him, just to see him do away with the fish. The ordinary gluttons hadn't a patch on him when it came to eating fish. He could outsit four or five relays of them.
He came straight to the "pan" and enquired:
"Are the tench out yet?"
"Not yet," answered Michael, "they are just beginning to come."
"So much the better."
Without delay he carried the news to the caterer.
"There are tench coming out … You'd better keep an eye on them!"
The man was all smiles and courtesy:
"I'll get them! … But first of all, let me find you a nice place at table … Here, won't you take this one, right in the centre? … that's where the platter is put. And listen: you know what's real eating, you do … you give the others an appetite … I'll let you have all you can eat … for nothing, you understand! All I ask you is to eat, eat, eat!"
"I'll do my best," the Otter replied with an honest look.
He had hardly sat down when three villagers from Saint-Ambroise settled themselves across the table from him and ordered a panful of small fry.
The crowd on the embankment was thickening. All the young people of the countryside were there. It was like at the first fair of the year. Fish dealers had come out and carried off the smaller fish and farmers' wives had to hurry to get a panful cheap.
Michael acted as auctioneer. He didn't weigh the fish but sold them by the bulk. The women crowded about and tried all kinds of ways to be served before their turn. An old woman, among the last to arrive, sneaked up to the front and when Michael brought out a fine lot she pushed aside the baskets of her neighbours and held out her own with the lid open, saying:
"Here! put it here, darlin'!"
And the boys on the embankment took up the name and laughed as they cried out:
"Darlin'! Darlin'! put it here, darlin'!"
Michael raised his head. Just above him was a group of girls and one of them, tall and very pretty, with flashing teeth, was looking at him boldly.
"Darlin'! Darlin'!"
He was ashamed of being so badly dressed.
Now the pond was nearly empty. There remained nothing but a big black basin, fifteen acres of mud through which wound a stream of shiny water. The big fish were coming out, enormous carp that had to be taken one at a time. The two farm-hands had got into the "pan" where they were paddling about, with mud to their ears, but enjoying their unusual occupation.
The eels were beginning to slip through the mouth of the sluice, one after the other; but they shot right down into the mud, and catch them there if you can! Anyway, the biggest of them remained in the basin; you could see some enormous fellows lying in the mud almost anywhere. There must be some very old ones among them that had never been caught in previous drainings.
The watchers pointed out a huge one lying not very far from the edge, and one of the boys boasted:
"I could get him all right!"
When someone dared him, he made a bet.
"If you get him," said Michael, "you can keep him, and I'll give you a franc piece to boot."
So the lad got out of his clothes, slipped on an old pair of trousers and waded into the mud. Very soon he was in up to his waist; and, as he wouldn't turn back, egged on by the laughing crowd, he finally fell flat on his belly, unable to scramble up again.
The girls started teasing him:
"Turn to the right! … Turn to the left! … He's caught like a fly in a jug of cream!"
They had to throw a rope to him and drag him back over the mud like a log. He ran down the meadow to wash up in the stream, with all the youngsters trailing him.
"Here's a photographer!"
The shout rallied everybody instantly. There was a man coming on a tandem bicycle with a lady who was wearing a hat. He set up his camera and tripod in the meadow, took a peep under his black cloth, made signs that he wanted to speak, and the crowd hushed.
"Would you like me to take a picture?"
"Yes! yes! go ahead!"
"Well, then, you'll have to group yourselves a little: some of you up on the embankment and others lower in the meadow, behind the fish catchers."
They formed groups in a flurry of excitement and held their poses. But they didn't suit the photographer, who came to arrange the groups himself.
"Here, you! Come here, little fellow, get to the front. Now, don't anybody move!"
They were too closely huddled; so the photographer spaced them deftly, like a man sorting apples.
"We don't want to be in it," said Michael.
"Oh yes, you do, my good man—just as you are; I'll send you a copy or two."
"All the same, we're ashamed," said Michael. "We're too dirty to be taken right in the front of a picture of all these fine folk."
He turned to look at the people behind him. There were some hundred of them, all standing stiff and trying to look pleasant. The mothers' eyes searched about for their children in the forefront. The young girls were hanging on the arms of the young men as the photographer had paired them, according to size and dress, without bothering which fellow was courting which girl. But nobody dared to protest for fear of making the whole thing go wrong.
Standing in front of the rest, about three steps behind him, Michael saw the fine-looking girl who had looked at him so boldly a few minutes before. The photographer had linked her arm in that of the baker from Saint-Ambroise, but she had calmly withdrawn it and placed herself where she wanted, right in the foreground.
She was tall, with narrow lips and a rounded bosom. Her face showed milky white under her black hair; but her eyes were her most remarkable feature, very large and very black, but full of light and fire, as sparkling as the stars in a clear winter night.
Michael felt the blood surging through his veins.
"I'll be a blot in the picture, standing so near you, Mademoiselle. You ought to be beside one of those fellows who're dressed up in their Sunday clothes."
She answered with frank directness:
"I don't agree with you. You are at work: it'll show plain enough in the picture!"
She added with a sidewise glance through her long lashes:
"You're lucky he told you he'd give you some pictures—I wish I could get one!"
"All ready!" called the photographer. "Everybody stand still now!"
She looked up and, with a quick movement, threw back her shawl; through the sheer net of her waist her bosom showed very white.
The photographer raised his hand.
"Now, I'll count. One!"
Michael had hardly time to turn his head to face the camera.
"Two—three! Thank you."
There was clearing of throats and laughter, and the youngsters returned to their gambols.
Michael turned around at once, but the girl was already off. He wanted to go after her, but then he did not dare. With his eyes he followed her lithe figure wending its way through the crowd of rather heavy-built peasants dressed in old-fashioned finery. At a little distance, at the top of the incline, she stopped; her glance fluttered back across the meadow, and meeting Michael's eye, she gave him a long, smiling look. Then, right away, she passed over the embankment and vanished.
Michael grew impatient. There remained only two or three purchasers who bothered him with demands for this kind of fish rather than that, or complained that they were being robbed, and weren't they free to bargain if they liked!
"Certainly! Certainly you're free—and so am I!"
He flung down the fish he was holding:
"You'll have to wait a while for me; I'm going up to the house."
He washed his hands and, leaving Gideon to watch the fish, he walked away. The embankment and the lane to the farm buildings were crowded with merrymakers, but the girl he was looking for was not among them. He retraced his steps, walked down through the meadow, and once more turned back to the house. The caterer had set up his tables in the barn; there was a crowd at the door. Michael went to look inside, but there was only "the Otter" eating his tench in the midst of half-drunk young fellows. He shrugged his shoulders in disgust and turned on his heel.
Where could she be?
On his way back to the pond he saw her coming toward him. She was alone, walking slowly, rolling her hips, so absorbed in thought that she started when he spoke to her:
"Has your young man deserted you that I find you walking all by yourself?"
"Oh! You startled me … I didn't see you."
He repeated his question foolishly:
"Has your young man deserted you?"
"I have no young man."
"That's too bad!"
She looked at him with head bent down a little, and her eyes were soft as velvet between the half-closed lashes.
"You're not from these parts, are you? I've never met you anywhere."
Instead of answering she questioned back:
"And you, are you the son of the house?"
"I'm the son of the house and the master too. That's why you saw me haggling with the farmers' wives, and that's why I'm wearing wooden shoes and my work clothes."
She looked at him steadily, playing with her shawl. He went on:
"I've spoken to the photographer—he told me again he'd try to send me two pictures. I'm glad I happened across you, because I wanted to tell you that there'll be one for you."
"It'll be a nice remembrance. Thanks!"
"You're entitled to one. If the picture is pretty to look at, it'll be because you're in it."
She raised her shoulders a little so that the shawl slipped down, and began to smile.
"You know how to pay compliments."
"I say as I think. It'll be a gift to the belle of the party, and I'll not lose by it, since he is sending me two. But I'll have to ask you where you live and who you are."
She paused a moment, then:
"Oh, you'll find out if you want to! But what if you get only one picture?"
The shawl had slipped quite down, uncovering her handsome shoulders and shapely throat. A heady scent enfolded Michael and his ears rang like Easter bells.
"If he should send you just one, you'd be in a fix—— Would you give it up for me?"
"I'd be only too glad! But won't you tell me your name?"
She drew herself up very close to him, her shining eyes darting fire:
"I hope he'll send just one," she said and ran away.
From the barn a man was calling Michael. He was a young mason of Saint-Ambroise who wanted to pay him a small sum he owed. They sat down at a table with two other villagers. The mason had been drinking; in a loud voice and with great show of affection he recalled to Michael the good old days when they were schoolboys together. After a while he interrupted himself, saying reproachfully:
"Hey there, darn you! you aren't even listening!"
Michael flushed hotly:
"I was … watching 'the Otter.'"
The mason, who was now quite befuddled, shouted:
"Hey there, Otter! Nice little Otter! Is your gullet in working order?"
The guzzler raised his purple face a little from the table and answered simply, without pride or malice:
"It's getting there, thank you. The bit I've swallowed so far has widened the gap. Pretty soon I'll have worked up an appetite."
Everyone in hearing exclaimed at this, and even Michael couldn't help but laugh.
"He's a bearcat!"
"He must have eaten ten pounds already!"
"Ten! … Better say fifteen! And not a bite of bread!"
He had been at it for fully four hours, and during that time more than a hundred people had come to sit around him, nibble a bit of white bait and shove the rest of their platefuls over to him.
There were still about twenty men around him, young farm-hands and villagers who had wagered they would make him stop or choke. They all threw their fishbones under the table, where he, too, was disposing of his. They made a heap high enough to bury their wooden shoes.
The caterer had told the cook:
"Go light on the butter but heavy on the pepper."
The stratagem worked. A fifteen-gallon barrel of wine was set on the table and emptied in no time, regardless of expense, while eyes grew round, palates hot and tempers high.
The mason, who had forgotten all about the payment he wanted to make to Michael, started to sing with them and Michael hurried away. He wanted to be alone and give himself up to his thoughts.
It was getting toward evening; the pond party was over. He went to his room, and it was only then the thought struck him that he ought to have asked Madeleine to bring the children down and pose in the group picture.
However, it soon passed out of his mind again. From his window he watched the crowd going home to Saint-Ambroise or Chantepie and said to himself:
"And I don't even know which way she went."