been so rough with her, so he held his tongue at last, feeling
embarrassed, and wishing too that she might have time to recover a
bit. Then he began again, in a very gentle tone:

'Well, as it annoys you, let's say no more about it. But if you only
knew. I've got a figure in my picture yonder which doesn't make
head-way at all, and you were just in the very note. As for me, when
it's a question of painting, I'd kill father and mother, you know.
Well, you'll excuse me, won't you? And if you'd like me to be very
nice, you'd just give me a few minutes more. No, no; keep quiet as you
are; I only want the head--nothing but the head. If I could finish
that, it would be all right. Really now, be kind; put your arm as it
was before, and I shall be very grateful to you--grateful all my life
long.'

It was he who was entreating now, pitifully waving his crayon amid the
emotion of his artistic craving. Besides, he had not stirred, but
remained crouching on his low chair, at a distance from the bed. At
last she risked the ordeal, and uncovered her tranquillised face. What
else could she do? She was at his mercy, and he looked so wretchedly
unhappy.

Nevertheless, she still hesitated, she felt some last scruples. But
eventually, without saying a word, she slowly brought her bare arm
from beneath the coverings, and again slipped it under her head,
taking care, however, to keep the counterpane tightly round her
throat.

'Ah! how kind you are! I'll make haste, you will be free in a minute.'