To get Louise away from this room, whose architecture is by no means conducive to love-making, I contrived a boating party to the Andelys, with the respectable view of visiting the ruins of Richard Coeur-de-Lion’s fortress.  The ascent is extremely rough, for the donjon is poised, like an eagle’s nest, upon the summit of a steep rock; and I counted upon Madame Taverneau, strangled in her Sunday stays, breathless, perspiring, red as a lobster put on hot-water diet, taking time half-way up the ascent to groan and fan herself with her handkerchief.

Alfred stopped by on his way from Havre, and for once in his life was in season.  I placed the rudder in his hands, begging at the same time that he would spare me his fascinating smiles, winks and knowing glances.  He promised to be a stock and kept his word, the worthy fellow!

A fresh breeze sprang up in time to take us up the river.  We found Louise and Madame Taverneau awaiting us upon the pier, built a short time since in order to stem the rush of water from the bridge.

Proud of commanding the embarkation, Alfred established himself with Madame Taverneau, wrapped in a yellow shawl with a border of green flowers, in the stern.  Louise and I, in order to balance the boat, seated ourselves in the bows.

The full sail made a sort of tent, and isolated us completely from our companions.  Louise, with only a narrow canvas shaking in the wind between her and her chaperon, feeling no cause for uneasiness, was less reserved; a third party is often useful in the beginning of a love idyl.  The most prudish woman in the world will grant slight favors when sure they cannot be abused.

Our boat glided through the water, leaving a fringe of silver in its wake.  Louise had taken off her glove, and, leaning over the side, let the water flow in crystal cascades through her ivory fingers; her dress, which she gathered round her from the too free gambols of the wind, sculptured her beauty by a closer embrace.  A few little wild flowers scattered their restless leaves over her bonnet, the straw of which, lit up by a bright sun-ray, shed around her a sort of halo.  I sat at her feet, embracing her with my glance; bathing her in magnetic influences; surrounding her with an atmosphere of love!  I called to my assistance all the powers of my mind and heart to make her love me and promise to be mine!

Softly I whispered to myself:  “Come to my succor, secret forces of nature, spring, youth, delicate perfumes, bright rays!  Let soft zephyrs play around her pure brow; flowers of love, intoxicate her with your searching odors; let the god of day mingle his golden beams with the purple of her veins; let all living, breathing things whisper in her ear that she is beautiful, only twenty, that I am young and that I love her!” Are poetical tirades and romantic declarations absolutely necessary to make a lovely woman rest her blushing brow upon a young man’s shoulder?