V

von Robert W. Chambers

The month flew by for Hastings, leaving behind only a few clear memories. One of those was the uncomfortable encounter with Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines, where he found himself alongside a rather bold young woman whose laugh unsettled him. When he finally managed to escape from the café where Mr. Bladen had insisted he join them for a drink, he felt as if the entire boulevard was watching him, judging him based on his company. Later, a sudden realization about the young woman with Mr. Bladen made his cheeks flush with embarrassment, and he returned to the pension in such a gloomy state that Miss Byng noticed and urged him to shake off his homesickness.

Another memory stood out just as clearly. One Saturday morning, feeling particularly lonely, Hastings wandered around the city until he found himself at the Gare St. Lazare. It was too early for breakfast, but he decided to step into the Hôtel Terminus and chose a table by the window. Just as he turned to place his order, a man hurriedly passing by bumped into him. Expecting an apology, he was instead greeted with a friendly slap on the shoulder and a cheerful, “What on earth are you doing here, old chap?” It was Rowden, who grabbed him and insisted he come along. Mildly protesting, Hastings was led into a private dining room where Clifford, looking a bit flushed, jumped up from the table to greet him with a surprised but warm expression, softened by Rowden's infectious enthusiasm and Elliott's polite demeanor.

Elliott introduced him to three enchanting girls who welcomed him with such charm and encouraged him to join their outing that he immediately agreed. While Elliott briefly outlined their plan for an excursion to La Roche, Hastings happily enjoyed his omelet, returning the encouraging smiles from Cécile, Colette, and Jacqueline. Meanwhile, in a low voice, Clifford was teasing Rowden about being a fool. Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, sensing the mood shift, shot Clifford a disapproving look and discreetly reassured Rowden that they would all make the best of the situation.

“Just be quiet,” Elliott said to Clifford. “It’s fate, and that’s that.”

“It’s Rowden, and that’s that,” Clifford muttered, hiding a grin. After all, he wasn’t Hastings’ babysitter.

So it happened that the train leaving Gare St. Lazare at 9:15 a.m. made a brief stop at the quaint red-roofed station of La Roche, where a lively group disembarked, equipped with sunshades, fishing rods, and one cane, which Hastings carried as the non-fisherman. Once they set up their camp in a grove of sycamores by the little river Ept, Clifford, the self-proclaimed expert on all things sporty, took charge.

“You, Rowden,” he instructed, “share your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on him. Otherwise, he’ll try to use a float and sinker. Make sure he doesn’t go digging around for worms.”

Elliott protested but couldn’t help but smile at the laughter that followed.

“You’re making me sick,” he said. “Do you think this is my first time fishing?”

“I’d love to see your first trout,” Clifford replied, dodging a fly hook that Rowden had thrown his way. He then proceeded to sort and prepare three delicate fishing rods meant to bring joy—and hopefully fish—to Cécile, Colette, and Jacqueline. With utmost seriousness, he adorned each line with four split shot, a small hook, and a bright quill float.

“I will never touch the worms,” Cécile declared with a shudder.

Jacqueline and Colette quickly supported her, and Hastings cheerfully volunteered to take on the role of baiter and fish handler. However, Cécile, clearly captivated by the colorful flies in Clifford’s tackle box, decided she wanted lessons in the art of fishing and soon wandered off up the river with Clifford in tow.

Elliott looked uncertainly at Colette.

“I prefer gudgeons,” she stated firmly. “You and Monsieur Rowden can go off whenever you like, can’t they, Jacqueline?”

“Of course,” Jacqueline replied.

Elliott, still undecided, fiddled with his rod and reel.

“You’ve got your reel on upside down,” Rowden pointed out.

Elliott hesitated and glanced at Colette.

“I—I’ve almost decided to—um—not to cast the flies just yet,” he stammered. “There’s the rod that Cécile left—”

“Don’t call it a pole,” Rowden corrected him.

“Rod, then,” Elliott continued, and started to follow the two girls, but Rowden quickly grabbed him.

“No, you don’t! Can you imagine a guy fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hands? You’re coming with me!”

Where the gentle Ept flows between its thickets and meets the Seine, a grassy bank provided a perfect spot for the gudgeon to hide. On this bank sat Colette and Jacqueline, chatting and laughing, their eyes following the flickering red quills of their fishing rods. Hastings, with his hat pulled low over his eyes and his head resting on a soft patch of moss, listened to their lighthearted voices while deftly unhooking the small, indignant fish whenever a rod twitched and a half-suppressed scream signaled a catch.

Sunlight filtered through the leafy branches, awakening the birds of the forest to song. Magpies, dressed in their striking black and white, flitted by, landing nearby with a playful hop and a twitch of their tails. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked as they darted through the trees, while a hawk glided low over the fields of ripening wheat, scattering flocks of chirping hedge birds.

Across the Seine, a gull descended onto the water like a feather. The air was fresh and still, with hardly a leaf stirring. Distant sounds from a nearby farm drifted in, the sharp crowing of a rooster mingling with the dull baying of cattle. Occasionally, a steam tug named “Guêpe 27” chugged up the river, pulling a long line of barges, or a sailboat floated down with the current toward the sleepy town of Rouen.

A faint, fresh scent of earth and water lingered in the air, and in the sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, while soft, velvety butterflies flitted through the mossy woods.

Hastings found his thoughts drifting to Valentine. It was two o’clock when Elliott strolled back, openly admitting that he had managed to avoid Rowden. He plopped down beside Colette, ready to doze off in satisfaction.

“Where are your trout?” Colette asked, her tone teasing.

“They’re still out there,” Elliott murmured, and promptly fell asleep.

Rowden returned shortly after, casting a scornful glance at the sleeping Elliott as he proudly displayed three trout, their crimson spots glistening.

“And that,” Hastings said lazily, “is the noble pursuit we labor for—the slaughter of these little fish with a bit of silk and feather.”

Rowden chose not to respond. Colette caught another gudgeon and woke Elliott, who protested and began searching for the lunch baskets just as Clifford and Cécile arrived, demanding immediate refreshments. Cécile’s skirts were soaked, and her gloves were torn, but she was beaming with happiness. Clifford, pulling out a hefty two-pound trout, paused to bask in the admiration of the group.

“Where on earth did you find that?” Elliott asked, astonished.

Cécile, still dripping and animated, recounted the battle she had waged to catch it. Clifford then praised her skills with the fly and, to prove his point, pulled a dead chub from his creel, noting that it had just missed being a trout.

Lunchtime was filled with laughter and joy, and Hastings was deemed “charming” by the group. He relished the moment, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that flirtation in France seemed to go a bit further than back in Millbrook, Connecticut. He wished Cécile would tone down her enthusiasm for Clifford, thought it might be better if Jacqueline sat a little further from Rowden, and felt that perhaps Colette could have, for just a moment, looked away from Elliott’s face. Still, he enjoyed the gathering—except when his thoughts wandered back to Valentine, and then he felt a deep distance between them. La Roche was at least an hour and a half from Paris. Yet, he felt a rush of happiness, a quickening of his heart, when at eight o’clock that night, the train carrying them from La Roche rolled into Gare St. Lazare, bringing him back to the city of Valentine.

“Good night,” they said, gathering around him. “You must come with us next time!”

He promised, watching them drift into the darkening city in pairs, and lingered so long that when he finally looked up, the vast Boulevard was aglow with gas jets, the electric lights shining down like moons.