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.

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."