Cremieux and I presently stood at the top of a rough and tumble-down flight of steps which led to a pier in somewhat better condition. I recognised the work of my own hands upon this last. For Jeanne and I had coopered it up only last year, so that her passengers might land without risking their lives each time. Paths extended both up and down stream, but as yet nothing had been done to the flight of rough-hewn steps of split pinewood leading to the forest above. These things I did not communicate to my new revolutionary friend, for I was busy wondering what effect Jeanne Felix would have upon him. My fourth or fifth shout brought the Mere Felix wrathfully down to the river edge where her white cap and broad head ribbons showed between the tall _cannes_. She had a couple of oars upon one shoulder and called across at us, "Who is making such a noise with their Marianas? There is no Mariana here except to my husband, the Pere Felix, who is now from home, doubtless at one of his foolish reunions----" "Dear Mariana," I answered, showing myself at the end of the little pier, "push out a boat and you can kiss me for it. My father says you may. Also send Jeanne quickly, for she and I can row so well together." "It is that rascal of an English student, Monsieu' Auegoose from Gobelet. Well, I might have guessed. Yet it is not playtime at St. Andre that I have heard. I shall have you sent back and whipped. What, they do not whip at St. Andre? Ah, it is no wonder, then, that you young people wax so impertinent. If only you were _my_ boy, I should not call upon Pere Felix to help me. No, no--I would----" and the old lady, smacking one hard hand upon the other, conveyed her meaning exactly. "Send Jeanne," I repeated, taking no notice of her pantomime. "Send Jeanne," she imitated my college-trained voice, "Jeanne--Jeanne--it is always Jeanne!" "Perhaps," I ventured, "when you were Jeanne's age it was always 'Mariana'! I'll wager that more people than Pere Felix called you that in those days, petite mere!" "Here comes Jeanne at last," she called, so that I could hear. "Do not put up with his insolence, Jeanne. He is a spoilt schoolboy, nothing more." Jeanne stepped sagely into the skiff, with a foot so light and practised that the frail craft hardly quivered in the water. She was a tall, dark girl with a supple figure, both light and well-rounded, remarkably Diana-ish in a land where the women, save a few, are inclined to shortness, and in addition are already overshadowed by the stoutness which inevitably overtakes them after marriage. Jeanne Felix received us without the least embarrassment into her boat. When I mentioned my friend's name in introducing him, there was one rapid up-and-down flicker of the drooping eyelashes, a flash of velvet eyes, and then without a word or a salutation she handed me the bow oar as if we had parted only the night before.