At ten o’clock they alighted at Bonnières; and there they took the ferry—an old ferry-boat that creaked and grated against its chain—for Bennecourt is situated on the opposite bank of the Seine. It was a splendid May morning, the rippling waters were spangled with gold in the sunlight, the young foliage showed delicately green against the cloudless azure. And, beyond the islets situated at this point of the river, how delightful it was to find the country inn, with its little grocery business attached, its large common room smelling of soapsuds, and its spacious yard full of manure, on which the ducks disported themselves.
‘Hallo, Faucheur! we have come to lunch. An omelette, some sausages, and some cheese, eh?’
‘Are you going to stay the night, Monsieur Claude?’
‘No, no; another time. And some white wine; eh? you know that pinky wine, that grates a bit in the throat.’
Christine had already followed mother Faucheur to the barn-yard, and when the latter came back with her eggs, she asked Claude with her artful peasant’s laugh:
‘And so now you’re married?’
‘Well,’ replied the painter without hesitation, ‘it looks like it since I’m with my wife.’
The lunch was exquisite: the omelette overdone, the sausages too greasy, and the bread so hard that he had to cut it into fingers for Christine lest she should hurt her wrist. They emptied two bottles of wine, and began a third, becoming so gay and noisy that they ended by feeling bewildered in the long room, where they partook of the meal all alone. She, with her cheeks aflame, declared that she was tipsy; it had never happened to her before, and she thought it very funny. Oh! so funny, and she burst into uncontrollable laughter.
‘Let us get a breath of air,’ she said at last.
‘Yes, let’s take a stroll. We must start back at four o’clock; so we have three hours before us.’