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just entered and seated himself on the bed, behind Jon-
drette.
Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of
ink or lampblack.
Although this man had, literally, glided into the room,
he had not been able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight
of him.
‘Don’t mind them,’ said Jondrette, ‘they are people who
belong in the house. So I was saying, that there remains in
my possession a valuable picture. But stop, sir, take a look
at it.’
He rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the
panel which we have already mentioned, and turned it
round, still leaving it supported against the wall. It really
was something which resembled a picture, and which the
candle illuminated, somewhat. Marius could make nothing
out of it, as Jondrette stood between the picture and him;
he only saw a coarse daub, and a sort of principal person-
age colored with the harsh crudity of foreign canvasses and
screen paintings.
‘What is that?’ asked M. Leblanc.
Jondrette exclaimed:—
‘A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my
benefactor! I am as much attached to it as I am to my two
daughters; it recalls souvenirs to me! But I have told you,
and I will not take it back, that I am so wretched that I will
part with it.’
Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawn-
ing uneasiness, M. Leblanc’s glance returned to the bottom