ALL IN A NIGHT by JEAN CAYROL I tried to see the time by his watch, but the light, fine drizzle which had started to fall prevented him from seeing the hands: the glass was wet. Francois shrugged. What was the use anyway? Night was putting an end, with a sort of shamefaced rapidity, to the early autumn day. The sun had made a brief, half-hearted attempt to show itself and set a touch of fire to the horizon. With the approach of dusk the evening mists had turned to a washed-out blue. In the distance the undulating line of the hills, here soft and distant, there notched and broken, stood out with a kind of ravished beauty. The tops of the thinning poplars, now turning red, imparted some- thing of brightness to the landscape. A farm took on the menacing solidity of a fortress: a clump of trees looked massive and impenetrable. The only movement came from the quivering of the lemon-coloured pop- lars: the only sound was a bird's thin call. The sun disappeared behind a gathering of level...

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