One of the boating men made a martyr of himself and took the mother.

“Let us go to the little wood on the Ile aux Anglais!” he called out as he rowed off.  The other boat went more slowly, for the rower was looking at his companion so intently that by thought of nothing else, and his emotion seemed to paralyze his strength, while the girl, who was sitting in the bow, gave herself up to the enjoyment of being on the water.  She felt a disinclination to think, a lassitude in her limbs and a total enervation, as if she were intoxicated, and her face was flushed and her breathing quickened.  The effects of the wine, which were increased by the extreme heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow as she passed.  A vague wish for enjoyment and a fermentation of her blood seemed to pervade her whole body, which was excited by the heat of the day, and she was also disturbed at this tete-a-tete on the water, in a place which seemed depopulated by the heat, with this young man who thought her pretty, whose ardent looks seemed to caress her skin and were as penetrating and pervading as the sun’s rays.

Their inability to speak increased their emotion, and they looked about them.  At last, however, he made an effort and asked her name.

“Henriette,” she said.

“Why, my name is Henri,” he replied.  The sound of their voices had calmed them, and they looked at the banks.  The other boat had passed them and seemed to be waiting for them, and the rower called out: 

“We will meet you in the wood; we are going as far as Robinson’s, because Madame Dufour is thirsty.”  Then he bent over his oars again and rowed off so quickly that he was soon out of sight.

Meanwhile a continual roar, which they had heard for some time, came nearer, and the river itself seemed to shiver, as if the dull noise were rising from its depths.

“What is that noise?” she asked.  It was the noise of the weir which cut the river in two at the island, and he was explaining it to her, when, above the noise of the waterfall, they heard the song of a bird, which seemed a long way off.

“Listen!” he said; “the nightingales are singing during the day, so the female birds must be sitting.”

A nightingale!  She had never heard one before, and the idea of listening to one roused visions of poetic tenderness in her heart.  A nightingale!  That is to say, the invisible witness of her love trysts which Juliet invoked on her balcony; that celestial music which it attuned to human kisses, that eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances which open an ideal sky to all the poor little tender hearts of sensitive girls!

She was going to hear a nightingale.

“We must not make a noise,” her companion said, “and then we can go into the wood, and sit down close beside it.”

The boat seemed to glide.  They saw the trees on the island, the banks of which were so low that they could look into the depths of the thickets.  They stopped, he made the boat fast, Henriette took hold of Henri’s arm, and they went beneath the trees.