The girl went reluctantly. The studio had always awed her. It was so huge, so rich. There were costly rugs on the floor and lovely pictures on the wall. The paintings all bore the signature of Abel Frossard, and ranged from nudes to landscapes.
The painter, in his velvet cap and dressing-gown, was sitting before a fresh canvas. He turned heavily and beckoned her to enter. His manner was bland, even ingratiating.
“Well, Margot, you are commencing this morning your new career, that of a model.”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl meekly.
“You’d better say ‘Yes, Master.’”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now as a model, you may be a success or you may be a failure. I will do my best to make you a success, but it will largely depend on yourself. There’s many a woman to-day with her limousine and her appartement in the Champs-Elysées who began life as a model. On the other hand, if you are a failure there is only the street for you, the hospital, prison, death ... you understand.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Ah, good! By the way, why were you afraid of me last night?”
The girl did not answer. She was looking at a fly that was crawling on the pink cotton wool in his ear.