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.
"Anyhow, come what may," he exclaimed, "I shall kiss her at the first
opportunity. I bet she falls at once into my arms."
As he resumed his walk, he was seized with indecision.
"But she is ugly," thought he. "She has a long nose, and a big mouth.
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