“Can I rent a rowboat here, monsieur?” I asked.
He looked at me in a dazed sort of way, then, shaking the ashes from his stubby pipe, became lost in thought. Had you asked him for a balloon he could not have been more puzzled.
“A rowboat,” I reiterated.
“Ah! monsieur, un bateau à rames, ah! that is difficult. The miller used to have one a year ago, but he sold it.”
I walked along down the river in the direction of Pont de Chatou, through waving fields of wheat gay with scarlet poppies. Suddenly in the distance I saw the lateen sail of a canoe showing above the bank. Another half mile and I had reached the bridge. Here several rowboats were drawn up to a float in front of the workshop of a constructeur. The builder himself came out to greet me. He was a pleasant little man and seemed much interested when I told him what I wanted. He motioned me to follow him and, unlocking the door of a barnlike structure, ushered me in. Suspended from the ceiling hung a score of racing boats and shells, the property of a Parisian boat club. Tucked away in a corner of the floor I saw my boat! A St. Lawrence canoe, clinker-built and perfect in all its appointments.
“Where the devil did you get this?” I cried.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“It belongs to the gentleman whose château you passed on the river. He brought it from America himself.”
My spirits fell.
“Will he rent it?” I asked.