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.