"Will you paint my portrait?" said another.
"Are we to go on foot or on horseback?" queried a third.
"A hundred francs a head," he replied, "just to walk about in the snow by moonlight. I will follow you at a distance. I want to see the effect. How many of you are there?" he added, after a moment. "Ten! that's hardly enough. But no matter, off we go!"
Three remained behind, saying:
"He hasn't a sou. We shall get inflammation of the lungs, and that will be all."
"You stay behind?" he said. "Seven left! Bravo! a cabalistic number, the seven deadly sins! Vive Dieu! I was afraid I should be bored, but there's an idea that saves me."
"Bah!" said Thérèse, "a mere artist's whim! He remembers that he is a painter. Nothing is lost."
She followed the strange party as far as the peristyle, to make sure that the fantastic idea was carried out; but the cold made the most determined draw back, and Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded to abandon the plan. He was asked to substitute a supper for the party.
"Faith," he said, "you are nothing but timid, selfish creatures, just exactly like virtuous women. I am going back into respectable society. So much the worse for you."
But they led him back to the foyer, and there ensued between him and other young men who were friends of his, and a party of shameless hussies, such a lively conversation, coupled with such fine projects, that Thérèse, overcome by disgust, withdrew, saying to herself that it was too late. Laurent loved vice; she could do nothing more for him.