So Nature, having outlived the
wrongs of a hundred years, has here with busy fingers so woven a web of
weed, moss, trailing vine, and low-branching tree that there is seen a
newer and more entrancing quality in her beauty, which, for want of a
better term, we call the picturesque.
But madame is calling that the big boat must be bailed out; that if I
am ever coming back to dinner it is absolutely necessary that I should
go away. This boat is not of extraordinary size. It is called the big
boat from the fact that it has one more seat than the one in which
Lucette rowed me over; and not being much in use except on Sunday, is
generally half full of water. Lucette insists on doing the bailing. She
has very often performed this service, and I have always considered it
as included in the curious scrawl of a bill which madame gravely
presents at the end of each of my days here, beginning in small printed
type with "Francois Laguerre, Restaurant Francais," and ending with
"Coffee 10 cents."
But this time I resist, remarking that she will hurt her hands and soil
her shoes, and that it is all right as it is.
To this Francois the younger, who is leaning over the fence, agrees,
telling Lucette to wait until he gets a pail.
Lucette catches his eye, colors a little, and says she will fetch it.
There is a break in the palings through which they both disappear, but I
am half-way out on the stream, with my traps and umbrella on the seat in
front and my coat and waistcoat tucked under the bow, before they
return.
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