a sleeve slipping down allowed her bosom to be seen, with skin which
looked almost gilded and soft like satin. Her right arm rested beneath
her neck, her head was thrown back, and her black unwound tresses
enwrapped her like a dusky cloak.

'Good gracious! But she's a beauty!' muttered Claude once more.

There, in every point, was the figure he had vainly sought for his
picture, and it was almost in the right pose. She was rather spare,
perhaps, but then so lithe and fresh.

With a light step, Claude ran to take his box of crayons, and a large
sheet of paper. Then, squatting on a low chair, he placed a portfolio
on his knees and began to sketch with an air of perfect happiness. All
else vanished amidst artistic surprise and enthusiasm. No thought of
sex came to him. It was all a mere question of chaste outlines,
splendid flesh tints, well-set muscles. Face to face with nature, an
uneasy mistrust of his powers made him feel small; so, squaring his
elbows, he became very attentive and respectful. This lasted for about
a quarter of an hour, during which he paused every now and then,
blinking at the figure before him. As he was afraid, however, that she
might change her position, he speedily set to work again, holding his
breath, lest he should awaken her.

And yet, while steadily applying himself to his work, vague fancies
again assailed his mind. Who could she be? Assuredly no mere hussy.
But why had she told him such an unbelievable tale? Thereupon he began
to imagine other stories. Perhaps she had but lately arrived in Paris
with a lover, who had abandoned her; perhaps she was some young woman
of the middle classes led into bad company by a female friend, and not