r. The dog
catches mosquitoes or else stretches out its huge paws and pitches the
whole shooting-match over and fills it with water. All this looking out
is a bit too complicated for my tyro's taste. Most of the time, I go to
the _wish-and-wait_ on foot, paddling deep into the swamp in enormous
leather waders. I move slowly and carefully for fear of getting stuck
in the mud. I try to avoid stinking reeds and jumping frogs....

Happily, an islet of tamarisks finally appears and I can get myself
onto some dry land. The keeper did me the honour of leaving his dog
with me, a huge Great Pyrenees with a long, white, shaggy coat, a prime
hunter and fishing dog, whose presence never ceases to intimidate me
somewhat. When a water fowl comes within firing range, the dog has an
ironical way of looking at me and throwing his head back like a
disdainful arty type, and with his two long ears flopping in front of
his eyes, he freezes, and wags his tail, in a perfect mime of
impatience, as if to say:

--Shoot... go on then, shoot!

I obey. I miss. So, he lies down full length, and yawns and stretches
himself out giving the appearance, for all the world, of being tired,
discouraged, and insolent....

Oh! Very well, then, you're right, I am a bad shot. What really
fascinates me about the lookout is the sunset; the dimming light taking
refuge in the water of the shining lakes, which transform the grey tint
of the overcast sky into a fine shade of polished silver. I love the
smell of the water, and the mysterious rustling of long leaves and
insects in the reeds. Every so often, a darker note sounds and rolls
across the sky like the sound of a conch shell. It's the boom of the
bittern as it plunges its huge, wader's beak to the bed of the
swamp.... Noisy crane flights startle me and I can hear the movement of
their feathered, plumed wings. Then--nothing. It's the night, the deep,
dark night, with just a glimmer of daylight left lingering on the
water....

Suddenly, I feel sort of nervous unease, as if someone was behind me. I
turn round and am reassured by the sight of that ubiquitous travelling
companion of fine nights, the moon; a low, large, and full moon rising
calmly and with a visible motion which slows gradually as it rises
above the horizon.

A moonlit patch is already clearly visible nearby, then another, then
one further off.... Eventually the whole marsh is bathed in moonlight,
and the least tuft of grass gives a shadow.