shaking her head. Then the big, red-haired girl
began saying things with a double meaning, speaking of women who are
stuck up without being any better than the others; sometimes she would
let out a vulgar word which acted like a bomb exploding amid the icy
dignity of the passengers.

At last they arrived. Patissot immediately wished to gain the shady nooks
of the park, hoping that the melancholy of the forest would quiet the
ruffled temper of his companion. But an entirely different effect
resulted. As soon as she was amid the leaves and grass she began to sing
at the top of her lungs snatches from operas which had stuck in her
frivolous mind, warbling and trilling, passing from "Robert le Diable" to
the "Muette," lingering especially on a sentimental love-song, whose last
verses she sang in a voice as piercing as a gimlet.

Then suddenly she grew hungry. Patissot, who was still awaiting the
hoped-for tenderness, tried in vain to retain her. Then she grew angry,
exclaiming:

"I am not here for a dull time, am I?"

He had to take her to the Petit-Havre restaurant, which was near the
place where the regatta was to be held.

She ordered an endless luncheon, a succession of dishes substantial
enough to feed a regiment. Then, unable to wait, she called for relishes.
A box of sardines was brought; she started in on it as though she
intended to swallow the box itself. But when she had eaten two or three
of the little oily fish she declared that she was no longer hungry and
that she wished to see the preparations for the race.

Patissot, in despair and in his turn seized with hunger, absolutely
refused to move. She started off alone, promising to return in time for
the dessert. He began to eat in lonely silence, not knowing how to lead
this rebellious nature to the realization of his dreams.

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
cares