“You like it, eh? Yes, it’s good. A bit idealized. Well, it’s nothing to what I will do before I finish. I’ll make Chabas look to his laurels yet. Ah! your hair! it’s what inspires me. Tadé Stycka has no better model. I’ll make your hair famous.”
Turning her to admire it the more, he parted it behind; then suddenly the girl felt his lips pressed to the back of her neck. She started as if a serpent had stung her and put her hand to the place. Again a shudder passed over her. For a moment a strange look came into his eyes, then they went cold again, and he laughed reassuringly.
“Ha! Ha! you mustn’t mind me. It’s purely paternal. It won’t do you any harm. Now go and get a good supper. I’ll want you to-morrow. Don’t look at me in such a frightened way. I’m not an ogre. I won’t eat you.”
The next day she posed for him again, but this time he did not attempt to kiss her. He was very authoritative.
“Pull up your sleeves,” he said sharply.
She obeyed. He looked derisively at her skinny arms.
“Now, open your dress and show me your shoulders. Coil up your hair on your head first.”
Again she obeyed. When he was like this she was not afraid of him. It was as if there were two men in him, the artist and the satyr. He was all artist as he continued:
“Humph! You’ll never do. You’re nothing but bones and green shadows.”
He threw down his palette and walked heavily about the room.