“No, no, I can wait,” hastened to say the young woman, at whom Laurent was fixedly looking. All three went downstairs again. Passing before the rostrum where the lady cashier was seated, they retained a table, and decided on a menu, saying they would return in an hour. As the host let out pleasure boats, they asked him to come and detach one. Laurent selected a skiff, which appeared so light that Camille was terrified by its fragility. “The deuce,” said he, “we shall have to be careful not to move about in this, otherwise we shall get a famous ducking.” The truth was that the clerk had a horrible dread of the water. At Vernon, his sickly condition did not permit him, when a child, to go and dabble in the Seine. Whilst his schoolfellows ran and threw themselves into the river, he lay abed between a couple of warm blankets. Laurent had become an intrepid swimmer, and an indefatigable oarsman. Camille had preserved that terror for deep water which is inherent in women and children. He tapped the end of the boat with his foot to make sure of its solidity. “Come, get in,” cried Laurent with a laugh, “you’re always trembling.” Camille stepped over the side, and went staggering to seat himself at the stern. When he felt the planks under him, he was at ease, and joked to show his courage. Thérèse had remained on the bank, standing grave and motionless beside her sweetheart, who held the rope. He bent down, and rapidly murmured in an undertone: “Be careful. I am going to pitch him in the river. Obey me. I answer for everything.” The young woman turned horribly pale. She remained as if riveted to the ground. She was rigid, and her eyes had opened wider. “Get into the boat,” Laurent murmured again. She did not move. A terrible struggle was passing within her. She strained her will with all her might, to avoid bursting into sobs, and falling to the ground. “Ah! ah!” cried Camille. “Laurent, just look at Thérèse. It’s she who is afraid. She’ll get in; no, she won’t get in.” He had now spread himself out on the back seat, his two arms on the sides of the boat, and was showing off with fanfaronade. The chuckles of this poor man were like cuts from a whip to Thérèse, lashing and urging her on. She abruptly sprang into the boat, remaining in the bows. Laurent grasped the skulls. The skiff left the bank, advancing slowly towards the isles. Twilight came. Huge shadows fell from the trees, and the water ran black at the edges. In the middle of the river were great, pale, silver trails. The boat was soon in full steam. There, all the sounds of the quays softened; the singing, and the cries came vague and melancholy, with sad languidness. The odour of frying and dust had passed away. The air freshened. It turned cold. Laurent, resting on his skulls, allowed the boat to drift along in the current.