PAUL'S MISTRESS

The Restaurant Grillon, a small commonwealth of boatmen, was slowly
emptying. In front of the door all was a tumult of cries and calls,
while the jolly dogs in white flannels gesticulated with oars on their
shoulders.

The ladies in bright spring toilets stepped aboard the skiffs with
care, and seating themselves astern, arranged their dresses, while the
landlord of the establishment, a mighty individual with a red beard,
of renowned strength, offered his hand to the pretty dears, with great
self-possession, keeping the frail craft steady.

The rowers, bare-armed, with bulging chests, took their places in their
turn, posing for their gallery, as they did so, a gallery consisting of
middle class people dressed in their Sunday clothes, of workmen and
soldiers leaning upon their elbows on the parapet of the bridge, all
taking a great interest in the sight.

The boats one by one cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen bent
themselves forward and then threw themselves backwards with an even
swing, and under the impetus of the long curved oars, the swift skiffs
glided along the river, got far away, grew smaller and finally
disappeared under the other bridge, that of the railway, as they
descended the stream towards La Grenouillere. One couple only remained
behind. The young man, still almost beardless, slender, and of pale
countenance, held his mistress, a thin little brunette, with the gait of
a grasshopper, by the waist; and occasionally they gazed into each others
eyes. The landlord shouted:

"Come, Mr. Paul, make haste," and they drew near.

Of all the guests of the house, Mr. Paul was the most liked and most
respected. He paid well and punctually, while the others hung back for
a long time, if indeed they did not vanish insolvent. Besides which he
acted as a sort of walking advertisement for the establishment, inasmuch
as his father was a senator. And when a stranger would inquire: "Who on
earth is that little chap who thinks so much of himself because of his
girl?" some habitue would reply, half-aloud, with a mysterious and
important air: "Don't you know? That is Paul Baron, a senator's son."

And invariably the other could not restrain himself from exclaiming:

"Poor devil! He is not half mashed."

Mother Grillon, a worthy and good business woman, described the young man
and his companion as "her two turtle-doves," and appeared quite moved by
this passion, profitable for her hou