EVERYONE'S TALENT is put to use. Madeleine paddles. M. Pujol moans. Charlotte plays. The photographer composes. He, too, has succumbed to the widow's proposition. His name is Adrien, and he is the younger brother of a famous and sought-after man who practices the same trade as he, except with greater success. That celebrated photographer counts among his sitters Victor Hugo, Gustave Flaubert, the divine Sarah Bernhardt.
It is thanks to him that Adrien now finds his second-rate skills in demand. As assistant to his more capable brother, he has toured the catacombs and sewers of Paris, taking pictures underground, learning to illuminate dark places. Places no darker than the widow's drawing room at night.
Adrien shyly takes hold of Madeleine and turns her face to the light. She rustles when he moves her, layer upon layer of starched petticoat, shiny frock, drooping bow, rising up around her like froth on boiling milk. She submits to his touch with a tender complaisance, as if she likes nothing better than being arranged. But now he must fix the sad and pale-faced man. Try as he might, the photographer cannot make him understand. He must arch his back so; he must let his head drop between his arms; he must appear more dog-like. It is as the widow wishes. In exasperation, Adrien presses his hand into the small of M. Pujol's back: Like so!
He withdraws his hand, in fear. The shock of this man's skin against his fingertips: it is something he has not felt before. Through the cameras round eye, the man is bright as a planet, his naked body whiter and more brilliant than the explosion that, for a single hot second, illuminates the room.