Since he had been on his legs, Claude had felt sorely tempted to push aside the screen and to take a look at his guest.  This self-condemned curiosity only increased his bad temper.  At last, with his habitual shrug of the shoulders, he was taking up his brushes, when he heard some words stammered amidst a rustling of bed-clothes.  Then, however, soft breathing was heard again, and this time he yielded to the temptation, dropping his brushes, and peeping from behind the screen.  The sight that met his eyes rooted him to the spot, so fascinated that he muttered, ‘Good gracious! good gracious!’

The girl, amidst the hot-house heat that came from the window, had thrown back her coverlet, and, overcome with the fatigue of a restless night, lay steeped in a flood of sunshine, unconscious of everything.  In her feverish slumbers a shoulder button had become unfastened, and a sleeve slipping down allowed her bosom to be seen, with skin which looked almost gilded and soft like satin.  Her right arm rested beneath her neck, her head was thrown back, and her black unwound tresses enwrapped her like a dusky cloak.

‘Good gracious!  But she’s a beauty!’ muttered Claude once more.

There, in every point, was the figure he had vainly sought for his picture, and it was almost in the right pose.  She was rather spare, perhaps, but then so lithe and fresh.

With a light step, Claude ran to take his box of crayons, and a large sheet of paper.  Then, squatting on a low chair, he placed a portfolio on his knees and began to sketch with an air of perfect happiness.  All else vanished amidst artistic surprise and enthusiasm.  No thought of sex came to him.  It was all a mere question of chaste outlines, splendid flesh tints, well-set muscles.  Face to face with nature, an uneasy mistrust of his powers made him feel small; so, squaring his elbows, he became very attentive and respectful.  This lasted for about a quarter of an hour, during which he paused every now and then, blinking at the figure before him.  As he was afraid, however, that she might change her position, he speedily set to work again, holding his breath, lest he should awaken her.

And yet, while steadily applying himself to his work, vague fancies again assailed his mind.  Who could she be?  Assuredly no mere hussy.  But why had she told him such an unbelievable tale?  Thereupon he began to imagine other stories.  Perhaps she had but lately arrived in Paris with a lover, who had abandoned her; perhaps she was some young woman of the middle classes led into bad company by a female friend, and not daring to go home to her relatives; or else there was some still more intricate drama beneath it all; something horrible, inexplicable, the truth of which he would never fathom.  All these hypotheses increased his perplexity.  Meanwhile, he went on sketching her face, studying it with care.  The whole of the upper part, the clear forehead, as smooth as a polished mirror, the small nose, with