He would leave his office, he would paint for amusement, and saunter about hither and thither.

These hopes brought him night after night, to the shop in the arcade, in spite of the vague discomfort he experienced on entering the place.
One Sunday, with nothing to do and being bored, he went to see his old school friend, the young painter he had lived with for a time.

The artist was working on a picture of a nude Bacchante sprawled on some drapery.

The model, lying with her head thrown back and her torso twisted sometimes laughed and threw her bosom forward, stretching her arms.

As Laurent smoked his pipe and chatted with his friend, he kept his eyes on the model.