The image of the drowned man had become deeply impressed on his mind; and now, his hand, without his being conscious of it, never failed to draw the lines of this atrocious face which followed him everywhere.
Little by little, the painter, who was allowing himself to fall back on the divan, fancied he saw the faces become animated.

He had five Camilles before him, five Camilles whom his own fingers had powerfully created, and who, by terrifying peculiarity were of various ages and of both sexes.

He rose, he lacerated the pictures and threw them outside.
He said to himself that he would die of terror in his studio, were he to people it with portraits of his victim.
A fear had just come over him: he dreaded that he would no more be able to draw a head without reproducing that of the drowned man.

He wished to ascertain, at once, whether he were master of his own hand.

He placed a white canvas on his easel; and, then, with a bit of charcoal, sketched out a face in a few lines.