And you should hear Madame Bonnin when she gets going about wives who stoop to conquer and get carried away by a surge of passion into adultery!

FEMME FATALE

The restaurant, Le Grillon,1 Mecca of the entire local boating community, was now slowly emptying. At the main entrance a large crowd of people were calling and shouting out to each other. With oars on their shoulders, strapping great fellows in white jerseys waved and gesticulated. Women in light spring frocks were stepping cautiously into the skiffs moored alongside and, having settled themselves in the stern of each, were smoothing out their dresses. The owner of the establishment, a tough-looking, red-bearded man of legendary strength,2 was helping the pretty young things aboard and with a practised hand was holding steady the gently bobbing craft.

The oarsmen then took their places, playing to the gallery and showing off broad chests and muscular arms in their sleeveless vests. The gallery in this case consisted of a crowd of suburbanites in their Sunday best, as well as a few workmen and some soldiers, all leaning on the parapet of the bridge and watching the scene below with keen interest. One by one the boats cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen leaned forward and with a regular swing pulled back. At each stroke of the long, slightly curved blades the fast skiffs sped through the water making for La Grenouillère3 and growing progressively smaller till they disappeared beyond the railway bridge and into the distance.

Only one couple now remained. The slim, pale-faced young man, still a relatively beardless youth, had his arm around the waist of his girl, a skinny little grasshopper of a creature with brown hair. They stopped from time to time to gaze into each other’s eyes.

The owner cried: ‘Come on, Monsieur Paul, get a move on!’

The couple moved down closer. Of all the customers, Monsieur Paul, who paid regularly and in full, was the best liked and most respected. Many of the others ran up bills and frequently absconded without settling them. The son of a senator, he was also an excellent advertisement for the establishment. When some stranger asked, ‘And who’s that young chap over there with his eyes glued to the girl?’ one of the regulars would murmur, in a mysterious, important sort of way, ‘Oh, that’s Paul Baron, you know, the son of the senator.’ Then the stranger would inevitably have to comment, ‘Poor young devil, he’s got it bad.’ The proprietress of Le Grillon, a good businesswoman and wise in the ways of the world, called the young man and his companion ‘my two turtle doves’ and looked with tender indulgence on the love affair which brought such glamour to her establishment.