Meanwhile, the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness.  Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength, burned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words.  In his days of health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will sometimes have.  He had thought that the fruit of many years’ labor, disposed of to advantage, might procure him enough to live, in an economical way, for the rest of his life.  He never anticipated fame or fortune; the height of his ambition or hope was, to possess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with means enough to purchase one comfortable meal per day.

Now, alas! however, even that one hope had deserted him.  He thought himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon him, without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another world.  He fancied his bed surrounded by fiendish faces, grinning at his sufferings, and taunting his inability to summon power to disperse them.  At length the apparition faded away, and the patient sunk into an exhausted slumber.

He awoke unrefreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected.  His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand toward the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness he had quenched his thirst.  Alas! it was empty!  Samuel lay for a few moments thinking what he should do.  He knew he must die of want if he remained there alone; but to whom could he apply for aid?

An idea seemed, at last, to strike him.  He arose slowly, and with difficulty, from the bed, went to the other side of the room, and took up the picture he had painted last.  He resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him with the necessaries of life for a week longer.  Despair lent him strength to walk, and to carry his burden.  On his way, he passed a house, about which there was a crowd.  He drew nigh, asked what was going on, and received for an answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art, collected by an amateur in the course of thirty years.  It has often happened that collections made with infinite pains by the proprietor, have been sold without mercy or discrimination after his death.

Something whispered to the weary Duhobret, that here would be the market for his picture.  It was a long way yet to the house of the picture dealer, and he made up his mind at once.  He worked his way through the crowd, dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the auctioneer.  That personage was a busy man, with a handful of papers; he was inclined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gesture and language.

“What do you call your picture?” at length, said he, carefully looking at it.