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But this did not prevent the painter from being satisfied; he pointed with an extraordinary joviality at certain details, as if they were the expression of a unique artfulness. Thomas politely approved; the clothes were reproduced exactly; in fact, they were so faithfully drawn and painted that in studying this meticulous copy, one felt a bizarre and quite un­ pleasant sensation; were these clothes then so important? As for the face, Thomas wondered in vain how the painter could imagine passing it off as that of its model.

He placed the paint­ ing in a frame and covered it with a piece of cloth. Then he took off his smock and appeared again in the worn-out suit covered with decorations and tarnished braids in which he had first appeared. He went on arranging certain things in the room, poured the water from the carafe onto the floor, and stirred the brushes around in the puddles. He carried out this action as though it were perfectly natural, which was enough to explain the state of the room itself. This room lost the chaotic aspect that the light had made so pleasant.

It was the portrait of a young woman; only half of her face was visible, for the other part was almost blotted out. The expression was sweet and gentle, and although it was not without sadness, one felt attached to the smile that brightened it. How to interpret this smile? This was the moment to lean forward and look more closely. But it was futile. Thomas could not release his own grip. He turned around and pressed his pouting lips against his companion. In this posture, which his fatigue forced him to ac­ cept, he drifted into sleep, enjoying as though in a dream the sensations that came over him.