On the river a fleet of boats passed and repassed; long narrow skiffs went by, urged on by the powerful strokes of oarsmen whose bare arms showed rolls of muscle under the sunburnt skin. The women in the boats, dressed in blue or red flannel, holding open umbrellas also blue or red over their heads, wore brilliant splashes of colour under the burning sun; they lolled on their seat in the stern and seemed to glide along the water, motionless or drowsy. Heavier boats moved slowly past, loaded with people. A lighthearted student, bent on making himself conspicuous, rowed with a windmill stroke, bumping into all the boats, whose occupants swore at him. He eventually disappeared crestfallen, after nearly drowning two swimmers, followed by the jeers of the crowd jammed together on the floating café.
Yvette, radiant, passed through the middle of this noisy, struggling crowd on Servigny’s arm. She seemed quite happy to be jostled by all and sundry, and stared at the girls with calm and friendly eyes.
“Look at that one, Muscade, what lovely hair she’s got! They do seem to be enjoying themselves.”
The pianist, an oarsman dressed in red, whose hat was very like a colossal straw parasol, began a waltz. Yvette promptly seized her companion by the waist and carried him off with the fury she always put into her dancing. They went on so long and with such frenzy that the whole crowd watched them. Those who were sitting drinking stood upon their tables and beat time with their feet, others smashed glasses. The pianist seemed to go mad; he banged at the ivory keys with galloping hands, gesticulating wildly with his whole body, swaying his head and its enormous covering with frantic movements.
Abruptly he stopped, slid down, and lay full length on the ground, buried under his hat, as though he were dead of exhaustion. There was a burst of laughter in the café, and everyone applauded. Four friends rushed up as though there had been an accident, and picking up their comrade, bore him off by all four limbs, placing on his stomach the roof under which he sheltered his head. Another jester followed, intoning the De Profundis, and a procession formed up behind the mock corpse. It went round all the paths in the island, gathering up drinkers, strollers, indeed everyone it met.
Yvette ran along enraptured, laughing heartily and talking to everyone, wild with the din and the bustle. Young men pushed against her and stared at her excitedly with eyes whose burning glances seemed to strip her naked. Servigny began to be afraid that the adventure might end unfortunately. The procession went on its way, getting faster and faster, for the four bearers had begun to race, followed by the yelling crowd. But suddenly they turned towards the bank, stopped dead at the edge, for an instant swung their comrade to and fro, and then, all letting go of him at once, they heaved him into the water. A great shout of merriment burst from every mouth, while the bewildered pianist splashed about, swearing, coughing, and spitting out the water; stuck fast in the mud, he struggled to climb up the bank. His hat, which was floating down the stream, was brought back by a boat.
Yvette danced with joy and clapped her hands, saying:
“Oh, Muscade, what fun, what fun!”
Servigny, now serious, watched her, a little embarrassed and a little dismayed to see her so much at ease in this vulgar mob. He felt a faint disgust born of the instinct that an aristocrat rarely loses, even in moments of utter abandon, the instinct that protects him from unpardonable familiarities and contacts that would be too degrading. “No one will credit you with too much breeding, my child,” he said to himself, astounded. He had an impulse to speak to her aloud as familiarly as he always did in his thoughts, with as little ceremony as he would have used on meeting any woman who was common property. He no longer saw her as any different from the red-haired creatures who brushed against them, bawling obscene words in their harsh voices. Coarse, brief, and expressive, these words were the current speech of the crowd; they seemed to flit overhead, born there in the mob like flies in the dunghill over which they hover. No one seemed shocked or surprised; Yvette did not seem to notice them at all.
“Muscade, I want to bathe,” she said. “Let’s go out into deep water.”
“At your service, ma’am,” he replied.
They went to the bathing-cabin to get costumes. She was ready first and waited for him on the bank, smiling at all who looked at her. Then they went off side by side in the warm water. She swam with a luxurious abandon, caressed by the stream, quivering with a sensual pleasure; at every stroke she raised herself as though she were ready to leap out of the river. He found difficulty in keeping up with her; he was out of breath and angry at his inferiority. But she slowed down and then turned quickly and floated, her arms crossed, her eyes staring towards the blue sky. He gazed at the
