he canvas with short, sorry strokes, his rigid, cold
drawing recalling in a grotesque fashion that of the primitive masters.
He copied the face of Camille with a hesitating hand, as a pupil copies
an academical figure, with a clumsy exactitude that conveyed a scowl to
the face. On the fourth day, he placed tiny little dabs of colour on
his palette, and commenced painting with the point of the brush; he
then dotted the canvas with small dirty spots, and made short strokes
altogether as if he had been using a pencil.

At the end of each sitting, Madame Raquin and Camille were in ecstasies.
But Laurent said they must wait, that the resemblance would soon come.

Since the portrait had been commenced, Therese no longer quitted the
room, which had been transformed into a studio. Leaving her aunt alone
behind the counter, she ran upstairs at the least pretext, and forgot
herself watching Laurent paint.

Still grave and oppressed, paler and more silent, she sat down and
observed the labour of the brushes. But this sight did not seem to amuse
her very much. She came to the spot, as though attracted by some power,
and she remained, as if riveted there. Laurent at times turned round,
with a smile, inquiring whether the portrait pleased her. But she barely
answered, a shiver ran through her frame, and she resumed her meditative
trance.

Laurent, returning at night to the Rue Saint-Victor, reasoned with
himself at length, discussing in his mind, whether he should become the
lover of Therese, or not.

"Here is a little woman," said he to himself, "who will be my sweetheart
whenever I choose. She is always there, behind my back, examining,
measuring me, summing me up. She trembles. She has a strange face that
is mute and yet impassioned. What a miserable creature that Camille is,
to be sure."

And Laurent inwardly laughed as he thought of his pale, thin friend.
Then he resumed:

"She is bored to death in that shop. I go there, because I have nowhere
else to go to, otherwise they would not often catch me in the Arcade
of the Pont Neuf. It is damp and sad. A woman must be wearied to death
there. I please her, I am sure of it; then, why not me rather than
another?"

He stopped. Self-conceit was getting the better of him. Absorbed in
thought, he watched the Seine running by.

"Anyhow, come what may," he exclaimed, "I shall kiss her at the first
opportunity. I bet she falls at once into my arms."

As he resumed his walk, he wa