Twenty-four hours after writing her letter, Therese went from Dinard to
the little house in the Ternes. It had not been difficult for her to
find a pretext to go to Paris. She had made the trip with her husband,
who wanted to see his electors whom the Socialists were working over.
She surprised Jacques in the morning, at the studio, while he was
sketching a tall figure of Florence weeping on the shore of the Arno.

The model, seated on a very high stool, kept her pose. She was a long,
dark girl. The harsh light which fell from the skylight gave precision
to the pure lines of her hip and thighs, accentuated her harsh visage,
her dark neck, her marble chest, the lines of her knees and feet, the
toes of which were set one over the other. Therese looked at her
curiously, divining her exquisite form under the miseries of her flesh,
poorly fed and badly cared for.

Dechartre came toward Therese with an air of painful tenderness which
moved her. Then, placing his clay and the instrument near the easel, and
covering the figure with a wet cloth, he said to the model:

"That is enough for to-day."

She rose, picked up awkwardly her clothing, a handful of dark wool and
soiled linen, and went to dress behind the screen.

Meanwhile the sculptor, having dipped in the water of a green bowl his
hands, which the tenacious clay made white, went out of the studio with
Therese.

They passed under the tree which studded the sand of the courtyard with