The numerous fleet of boats also acclaimed the women’s boat, which awoke from its sleepy motion to land rather farther off.

Mr. Paul, contrary to the others, had drawn a key from his pocket and whistled with all his might.  His nervous mistress grew paler, caught him by the arm to cause him to be quiet, and upon this occasion she looked at him with fury in her eyes.  But he appeared exasperated, as though borne away by jealousy of some man by deep anger, instinctive and ungovernable.  He stammered, his lips quivering with indignation: 

“It is shameful!  They ought to be drowned like dogs with a stone about the neck.”

But Madeleine instantly flew into a rage; her small and shrill voice became hissing, and she spoke volubly, as though pleading her own cause: 

“And what has it to do with you—­you indeed?  Are they not at liberty to do what they wish since they owe nobody anything.  A truce with your airs and mind your own business....”

But he cut her speech short: 

“It is the police whom it concerns, and I will have them marched off to St. Lazare; so I will.”

She gave a start: 

“You?”

“Yes, I!  And in the meantime I forbid you to speak to them, you understand, I forbid you to do so.”

Then she shrugged her shoulders and grew calm in a moment: 

“My friend, I shall do as I please; if you are not satisfied, be off, and instantly.  I am not your wife, am I?  Very well then, hold your tongue.”

He made no reply and they stood face to face, their mouths tightly closed and their breathing rapid.

At the other end of the great cafe of wood the four women made their entry.  The two in men’s costumes marched in front:  the one thin like an oldish tomboy, with yellow lines on her temples; the other filled out her white flannel garments with her fat, swelling out her big trousers with her buttocks; she swayed about like a fat goose with enormous legs and yielding knees.  Their two friends followed them, and the crowd of boatmen thronged about to shake their hands.

They had all four hired a small cottage close to the water’s edge, and they lived there as two households would have lived.

Their vice was public, recognized, patent.  People talked of it as a natural thing, which almost excited their sympathy, and whispered in very low tones strange stories of dramas begotten of furious feminine jealousies, of the stealthy visit of well-known women and of actresses to the little house close to the water’s edge.

A neighbor, horrified by these scandalous rumors, apprised the police, and the inspector, accompanied by a man, had come to make inquiry.  The mission was a delicate one; it was impossible, in short, to reproach these women, who did not abandon themselves to prostitution with anything.  The inspector, very much puzzled, indeed, ignorant of the nature of the offenses suspected, had asked questions at random, and made a lofty report conclusive of their innocence.