But he, behind her close-pressed hands, endowed her with a face akin to his own: she became his sister, as were all the poor creatures without roof or certainty who weep because they are naked and alone, and wear out their strength in seeking to force the wicked thresholds of men.

He could never gaze at her without pitying her, and it stirred him so much that evening to find her ever so unknown, nameless and visageless, yet steeped in the most bitter tears, that he suddenly began to question his companion.
"Tell me," said he, "do you know who painted that old picture?
It stirs me to the soul like a masterpiece." Stupefied by this unexpected question, the secretary raised his head and looked, feeling yet more astonished when he had examined the blackened, forsaken panel in its sorry frame.
"Where did it come from ?" resumed Pierre; "why has it been stowed away in this room ?" "Oh!" replied Don Vigilio, with a gesture of indifference, "it's nothing.
There are heaps of valueless old paintings everywhere.

That one, no doubt, has always been here.

But I don't know; I never noticed it before." Whilst speaking he had at last risen to his feet, and this simple action had brought on such a fit of shivering that he could scarcely take leave, so violently did his teeth chatter with fever.

"No, no, don't show me out," he stammered, "keep the lamp here.