obliged to mention that the portrait would be finished on the morrow,
and Madame Raquin thereupon announced that they would celebrate the
completion of the work of the artist by dining together.

The next day, when Laurent had given the canvas the last touch, all the
family assembled to go into raptures over the striking resemblance. The
portrait was vile, a dirty grey colour with large violescent patches.
Laurent could not use even the brightest colours, without making
them dull and muddy. In spite of himself he had exaggerated the wan
complexion of his model, and the countenance of Camille resembled the
greenish visage of a person who had met death by drowning. The grimacing
drawing threw the features into convulsions, thus rendering the sinister
resemblance all the more striking. But Camille was delighted; he
declared that he had the appearance of a person of distinction on the
canvas.

When he had thoroughly admired his own face, he declared he would go and
fetch a couple of bottles of champagne. Madame Raquin went down to the
shop, and the artist was alone with Therese.

The young woman had remained seated, gazing vaguely in front of her.
Laurent hesitated. He examined the portrait, and played with his
brushes. There was not much time to lose. Camille might come back, and
the opportunity would perhaps not occur again. The painter abruptly
turned round, and found himself face to face with Therese.

They contemplated one another for a few seconds. Then, with a violent
movement, Laurent bent down, and pressed the young woman to him.
Throwing back her head he crushed her mouth beneath his lips. She made
a savage, angry effort at revolt, and, then all at once gave in. They