touch compared with the glory of the landscape in your mind and heart.
But the thrill that it gave you will linger forever.

But I hear a voice behind me calling out:--

"Monsieur, mamma says that dinner will be ready in half an hour. Please
do not be late."

It is Lucette. She and François have come down in the other boat--the
one with the little seat. They have moved so noiselessly that I have not
even heard them. The sketch is nearly finished; and so, remembering the
good madame, and the Roquefort, and the olives, and the many times I
have kept her waiting, I wash my brushes at once, throw my traps into
the boat, and pull back through the winding turn, François taking the
mill-race, and in the swiftest part springing to the bank and towing
Lucette, who sits in the stern, her white skirts tucked around her
dainty feet.

"_Sacré!_ He is here. _C'est merveilleux!_ Why did you come?"

"Because you sent for me, madame, and I am hungry."

"_Mon Dieu!_ He is hungry, and no chicken!"

It is true. The chicken was served that morning to another tramp for
breakfast, and madame had forgotten all about it, and had ransacked the
settlement for its mate. She was too honest a cook to chase another into
the frying-pan.

But there was a _filet_ with mushrooms, and a most surprising salad of