With his face fat and
rosy, his belly full, his brain empty, he felt happy.
His frame seemed dead, and Therese barely entered his mind. Occasionally
he thought of her as one thinks of a woman one has to marry later on, in
the indefinite future. He patiently awaited the time for his marriage,
forgetful of the bride, and dreaming of the new position he would then
enjoy. He would leave his office, he would paint for amusement, and
saunter about hither and thither. These hopes brought him night after
night, to the shop in the arcade, in spite of the vague discomfort he
experienced on entering the place.
One Sunday, with nothing to do and being bored, he went to see his
old school friend, the young painter he had lived with for a time. The
artist was working on a picture of a nude Bacchante sprawled on some
drapery. The model, lying with her head thrown back and her torso
twisted sometimes laughed and threw her bosom forward, stretching her
arms. As Laurent smoked his pipe and chatted with his friend, he kept
his eyes on the model. He took the woman home with him that evening and
kept her as his mistress for many months. The poor girl fell in love
with him. Every morning she went off and posed as a model all day.
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