The portrait progressed, and was likely to be good, for the painter had reached the state of emotion that is necessary in order to discover all the qualities of the model, and to express them with that convincing ardor which is the inspiration of true artists.

Leaning toward her, watching every movement of her face, all the tints of her flesh, every shadow of her skin, all the expression and the translucence of her eyes, every secret of her physiognomy, he had become saturated with her personality as a sponge absorbs water; and, in transferring to canvas that emanation of disturbing charm which his eye seized, and which flowed like a wave from his thought to his brush, he was overcome and intoxicated by it, as if he had drunk deep of the beauty of woman.

She felt that he was drawn toward her, and was amused by this game, this victory that was becoming more and more certain, animating even her own heart.

A new feeling gave fresh piquancy to her existence, awaking in her a mysterious joy.  When she heard him spoken of her heart throbbed faster, and she longed to say—­a longing that never passed her lips—­“He is in love with me!” She was glad when people praised his talent, and perhaps was even more pleased when she heard him called handsome.  When she was alone, thinking of him, with no indiscreet babble to annoy her, she really imagined that in him she had found merely a good friend, one that would always remain content with a cordial hand-clasp.

Often, in the midst of a sitting, he would suddenly put down his palette on the stool and take little Annette in his arms, kissing her tenderly on her hair, and his eyes, while gazing at the mother, said, “It is you, not the child, that I kiss in this way.”

Occasionally Madame de Guilleroy did not bring her daughter, but came alone.  On these days he worked very little, and the time was spent in talking.

One afternoon she was late.  It was a cold day toward the end of February.  Olivier had come in early, as was now his habit whenever she had an appointment with him, for he always hoped she would arrive before the usual hour.  While waiting he paced to and fro, smoking, and asking himself the question that he was surprised to find himself asking for the hundredth time that week:  “Am I in love?” He did not know, never having been really in love.  He had had his caprices, certainly, some of which had lasted a long time, but never had he mistaken them for love.  To-day he was astonished at the emotion that possessed him.

Did he love her?  He hardly desired her, certainly, never having dreamed of the possibility of possessing her.  Heretofore, as soon as a woman attracted him he had desired to make a conquest of her, and had held out his hand toward her as if to gather fruit, but without feeling his heart affected profoundly by either her presence or her absence.