He had first of all proceeded rapidly with his sketches; he now took pains to pass the stick of charcoal slowly over the canvas.

The result was the same: Camille, grimacing and in pain, appeared ceaselessly.
The artist sketched the most different heads successively: the heads of angels, of virgins with aureoles, of Roman warriors with their helmets, of fair, rosy children, of old bandits seamed with scars; and the drowned man always, always reappeared; he became, in turn, angel, virgin, warrior, child and bandit.
Then, Laurent plunged into caricature: he exaggerated the features, he produced monstrous profiles, he invented grotesque heads, but only succeeded in rendering the striking portrait of his victim more horrible.

He finished by drawing animals, dogs and cats; but even the dogs and cats vaguely resembled Camille.
Laurent then became seized with sullen rage.

He smashed the canvas with his fist, thinking in despair of his great picture.

Now, he must put that idea aside; he was convinced that, in future, he would draw nothing but the head of Camille, and as his friend had told him, faces all alike would cause hilarity.