ty francs from a second-hand dealer.

He remained a fortnight without even thinking of touching his brushes.
He arrived between eight and nine o'clock in the morning, smoked,
stretched himself on the divan, and awaited noon, delighted that it was
morning, and that he had many hours of daylight before him. At twelve
he went to lunch. As soon as the meal was over, he hastened back, to be
alone, and get away from the pale face of Therese. He next went through
the process of digestion, sleeping spread out on the divan until
evening. His studio was an abode of peace where he did not tremble. One
day his wife asked him if she might visit this dear refuge. He refused,
and as, notwithstanding his refusal, she came and knocked at the door,
he refrained from opening to her, telling her in the evening that he
had spent the day at the Louvre Museum. He was afraid that Therese might
bring the spectre of Camille with her.

Idleness ended by weighing heavily on his shoulders, so he purchased a
canvas and colours, and set to work. As he had not sufficient money to
pay models, he resolved to paint according to fancy, without troubling
about nature, and he began the head of a man.

But at this time, he did not shut himself up so much as he had done;
he worked for two or three hours every morning and passed the afternoon
strolling hither and thither in Paris and its vicinity. It was opposite
the Institut, on his return from one of these long walks, that he
knocked up against his old college friend, who had met with a nice
little success, thanks to the good fellowship of his comrades, at the
last Salon.

"What, is it you?" exclaimed the painter. "Ah! my poor Laurent, I hardly
recognise you. You have lost flesh."

"I am married," answered Laurent in an embarrassed tone.

"Married, you!" said the other. "Then I am not surprised to see you look
so funny: and what are you doing now?"

"I have taken a small studio," replied Laurent; "and I paint a little,
in the morning."

Then, in a feverish voice, he briefly related the story of his marriage,
and explained his future plans. His friend observed him with an air
of astonishment that troubled and alarmed him. The truth was that the
painter no longer found in the husband of Therese, the coarse, common
fellow he had known formerly. It seemed to him that Laurent was
acquiring a gentlemanly bearing; his face had grown thinner, and had
taken the pale tint of good taste, while his whole frame