saved the three sous his coffee and brandy cost him, and gluttonously
swallowed the excellent tea prepared by Madame Raquin. He remained
there until ten o'clock, dozing and digesting as if he were at home; and
before taking his departure, assisted Camille to put up the shutters and
close the shop for the night.

One evening, he came with his easel and box of colours. He was to
commence the portrait of Camille on the morrow. A canvas was purchased,
minute preparations made, and the artist at last took the work in hand
in the room occupied by the married couple, where Laurent said the light
was the best.

He took three evenings to draw the head. He carefully trailed the
charcoal over the 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.