A pretty little island

It was fifteen years since Charles Poupeau rose at seven fifth. Yes, he gives himself five minutes of respite at the wake-up call. He strolls a little bit and tells himself that tomorrow he will get up at seven o'clock, but every morning he lets himself win by this need to hang around a little. At home, there is no female presence to share the rather small space of his apartment. He never found the soul mate with whom to eat or watch TV. In short have a company because its needs are simple. It must be said that he never really sought. It would take an effort, go to the places frequented. But he feared the world a little and sometimes when he met a woman, he lowered his eyes with a shyness. He has forged an image of the idealized woman. But in his heart he suspects that all these beautiful creatures who praise the wonderful products of advertising, these presenters of weather so troubling, are there only for the dream. He has passed the thirties and forties, by letting himself float in habits of simple comfort. And, his fifties approaching, he thinks that finally it is a little late to change his life. But do not think that Charles lives in autarky. He fully appreciates the company of his office colleagues. Bruce with whom he jokes easily and Miss Fanny whom he still finds very well for his age. of the quarantine by letting itself float in habits of simple comfort. And, his fifties approaching, he thinks that finally it is a little late to change his life. But do not think that Charles lives in autarky. He fully appreciates the company of his office colleagues. Bruce with whom he jokes easily and Miss Fanny whom he still finds very well for his age. of the quarantine by letting itself float in habits of simple comfort. And, his fifties approaching, he thinks that finally it is a little late to change his life. But do not think that Charles lives in autarky. He fully appreciates the company of his office colleagues. Bruce with whom he jokes easily and Miss Fanny whom he still finds very well for his age.
Charles has two passions which take him all his leisure hours. He restored a Porch of the Seventies. It took five years of work for a perfect result. His second passion is angling. Not like these beasts of competition equipped with super sophisticated equipment but just the simple pleasure of dipping his wire with a bamboo cane, his grandfather's heritage and reflect on the psychology of river fish.
He was waiting this Sunday morning since the beginning of the week. The day before, everything was ready for a superb day of sunny nature. The fields are verdant and undulate under the caress of the wind. The air smells good and the way to the river is still deserted in the early morning. He joins the promontory near the old hut and installs his equipment in the boat. The dragonflies began their ballet on the surface of a calm water, between the water lilies. The river moves along the sinuosities. Charles has known her for so long. He knows that he has to go up the current on several corners to leave the urban area and get closer to the grasslands, where there are roaches and poles. He feels a real pleasure in shooting the oars. This gesture becomes instinctive and its perfect repetition leaves it in a state of serenity. When he returns to reality, he realizes that he has passed the grassland. The atmosphere is so sweet that he decides to continue until the next meander.
On the bank, a heron, hidden in the rushes, takes off towards the sea. Slowly, the river discovers its majesty. In the center of his bed, in the distance, appears a small island. Charles, surprised, does not remember having ever seen an island on this side. It stops its progress and observes. It is indeed an oblong strip of land partially covered with trees, making the landscape bucolic. The island gives the whole impression of complementarity. The great palette of the greens marrying with a water reflecting the azure sky under the still oblique rays of a sun dazzling with good light. Charles is surprised to contemplate this image so complete in its harmony. This island is perfectly in its place and, if he had never seen it before, it was because he had not looked at the river with enough wisdom. Now he is looking forward to her. The bark runs aground on a grassy strip a few meters from the first trees. The air is saturated with the vegetal scents heated and exhaled. The insects give the most beautiful of the sylvestre concerts. Charles progresses all the pleasure that offers this nature in full explosion of life. He wants to explore this little piece of paradise. The path winds between the barrels and the flowering bushes. Butterflies, in their jerky flight, cross the lines of light filtered by the high branches. Charles, passing the third lace of the little road, suspected that he was already going to the opposite bank of the island. But, after this turn, the path is prolonged, penetrating deeper into the heart of the forest. The insects give the most beautiful of the sylvestre concerts. Charles progresses all the pleasure that offers this nature in full explosion of life. He wants to explore this little piece of paradise. The path winds between the barrels and the flowering bushes. Butterflies, in their jerky flight, cross the lines of light filtered by the high branches. Charles, passing the third lace of the little road, suspected that he was already going to the opposite bank of the island. But, after this turn, the path is prolonged, penetrating deeper into the heart of the forest. cross the lines of light filtered by the high branches.

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Charles has struggled to estimate the width of the island. Perhaps he turns round in circles without noticing it. But he feels so good, if in his place on this path embalmed with forest fragrances he decides to continue the adventure. Laces after laces, he discovers the true dimension of this strip of land surrounded by the waters. How long has it been? He does not know. The straight passages succeed the turns tirelessly, offering the spectacle of the undergrowth similar but always different. This path does not seem to have an end. The natural hubbub of the little people of insects is dissolved, replaced by an almost heavy silence, as if it had crossed an invisible border. Damn it's bound to come out somewhere! All the more so as the landscape changes little by little. The air becomes colder and the shrubs, different, have lost their pretty green color. They are now thorny, overflowing on the way. The sky turns gray and the pretty light of this morning tarnished. Charles is struggling to make his way. The road becomes rugged, strewn with roots flushing the ground like so many traps to the walk. Large dead branches still clinging to old trunks graze his face like clawed fingers. Should we continue exploring or return to the boat? Large dead branches still clinging to old trunks graze his face like clawed fingers. Should we continue exploring or return to the boat? Large dead branches still clinging to old trunks graze his face like clawed fingers. Should we continue exploring or return to the boat?
Charles hesitates for a long time but decides to continue. It would be too stupid not to finish an adventure that has the merit of spicing up his daily so banal. He made his decision. He will go all the way. Then the walk becomes painful and the path shrinks and ends up closing completely. Charles finally saw a thinning. A kind of clearing. He is able to extricate himself from the imbroglio of plants. The atmosphere becomes heavy instantly, as announcing a bad rain. In the center of the open space he notices a mound of earth.
It is approaching. He discovers a grave.
It is not possible ! It may not be possible! It's a nightmare !
On the tomb plaque his own name appears. Then the forest, the clearing, the grave, all dissolve into a gray nebula. Then it is a white light, dazzling, from the bottom of the mist that rings it and guides it.
On Monday morning at the office, with no news of Charles Poupeau, Bruce decides to visit his friend and discovers his lifeless body, lying on the bed, a smile on his lips, face soothed.