As she did not return he set out in search of her.  She had found some friends, a troop of boatmen, in scanty garb, sunburned to the tips of their ears, and gesticulating, who were loudly arranging the details of the race in front of the house of Fourmaise, the builder.

Two respectable-looking gentlemen, probably the judges, were listening attentively.  As soon as she saw Patissot, Octavie, who was leaning on the tanned arm of a strapping fellow who probably had more muscle than brains, whispered a few words in his ears.  He answered: 

“That’s an agreement.”

She returned to the clerk full of joy, her eyes sparkling, almost caressing.

“Let’s go for a row,” said she.

Pleased to see her so charming, he gave in to this new whim and procured a boat.  But she obstinately refused to go to the races, notwithstanding Patissot’s wishes.

“I had rather be alone with you, darling.”

His heart thrilled.  At last!

He took off his coat and began to row madly.

An old dilapidated mill, whose worm-eaten wheels hung over the water, stood with its two arches across a little arm of the river.  Slowly they passed beneath it, and, when they were on the other side, they noticed before them a delightful little stretch of river, shaded by great trees which formed an arch over their heads.  The little stream flowed along, winding first to the right and then to the left, continually revealing new scenes, broad fields on one side and on the other side a hill covered with cottages.  They passed before a bathing establishment almost entirely hidden by the foliage, a charming country spot where gentlemen in clean gloves and beribboned ladies displayed all the ridiculous awkwardness of elegant people in the country.  She cried joyously: 

“Later on we will take a dip there.”

Farther on, in a kind of bay, she wished to stop, coaxing: 

“Come here, honey, right close to me.”

She put her arm around his neck and, leaning her head on his shoulder, she murmured: 

“How nice it is!  How delightful it is on the water!”

Patissot was reveling in happiness.  He was thinking of those foolish boatmen who, without ever feeling the penetrating charm of the river banks and the delicate grace of the reeds, row along out of breath, perspiring and tired out, from the tavern where they take luncheon to the tavern where they take dinner.

He was so comfortable that he fell asleep.  When he awoke, he was alone.  He called, but no one answered.  Anxious, he climbed up on the side of the river, fearing that some accident might have happened.

Then, in the distance, coming in his direction, he saw a long, slender gig which four oarsmen as black as negroes were driving through the water like an arrow.  It came nearer, skimming over the water; a woman was holding the tiller.  Heavens!  It looked—­it was she!  In order to regulate the rhythm of the stroke, she was singing in her shrill voice a boating song, which she interrupted for a minute as she got in front of Patissot.  Then, throwing him a kiss, she cried: