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At last the train stopped at Quiberon. They stopped at the Hotel de France to speak to the Proprietress, Mme. Le Dantec, and get a picnic dinner from her to take with them. The boat, the Soulacroup, was filling the air with its second whistle, so they had to hurry along. The tide was not yet full, so they had to climb down the slimy quay, slippery with trodden seaweed, shiny with fish scales.
The trip was rather rough and uncomfortable, but most of the company made the best of it. Mlle. Frahender grew pale and ill, and her hair flew about in the most comic disarray. Cosily ensconced in a corner, Maurice sketched the various attitudes his companions assumed with every antic of the lightly-laden, wave-tossed Soulacroup. Hunched up on the seat, Esperance clung to the rigging.
They had completely dropped the "Monsieur" and "Mademoiselle," and this intimacy filled the young man's heart with joy. Francois had made a special arrangement with the captain of the Soulacroup, so that the charming Countess need not risk travelling with geese and pigs. At Quiberon he had reserved a special room that she might have at least an hour of rest.
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