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.

Therese 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 Therese. 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 Therese, 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.

Opposite, rose the great reddish mass of trees on the islands. The two
sombre brown banks, patched with grey, were like a couple of broad bands
stretching towards the horizon. The water and sky seemed as if cut from
the same whitish piece of material. Nothing looks more painfully calm
than an autumn twilight. The sun rays pale in the quivering air, the old
trees cast their leaves. The country, scorched by the ardent beams of
summer, feels death coming with the first cold winds. And, in the sky,
there are plaintive sighs of despair. Night falls from above, bringing
winding sheets in its shade.

The party were silent. Seated at the bottom of the