We had just crossed the Place Maubert [Footnote: Place Maubert:
Boulevard St. Germain: streets in Paris.] and turned into the Boulevard
St. Germain; the boulevard was full of people, so that, without being
noticed, I could approach him quite close. He was standing before an
elegant confectioners' shop, and to my surprise he entered without
hesitation. I took up my position before the shop window, alongside some
shivering street arabs [Footnote: Street Arabs. What is meant by this
term?] who stood there, absorbed in the contemplation of the
unattainable delicacies within, and I watched the old man carefully
untie his pocket-handkerchief and lay the little girl's gift upon the
counter. I had hardly time to draw back before he came out with a red
paper bag of sweets in his hand, and with rapid steps he started off in
the direction of the Jardin des Plantes.

I was very much astonished at what I had seen, and my curiosity made me
follow him. He slackened his pace at one of the little slums behind
Hopital de la Pitie, [Footnote: Hopital de la Pitie: literally,
"Hospital of Pity."] and I saw him disappear into a dirty old house. I
waited outside a minute or two and then I groped my way through the
pitch-dark entrance, climbed up a filthy staircase, and found a door
slightly ajar. An icy, dark room, in the middle three ragged little
children crouched together around a half-extinct braziero, [Footnote:
Brazier: a pan for burning coals. Tuscan. Tuscany is one of the
divisions of northern Italy.] in the corner the only furniture in the
room--a clean iron bedstead, with crucifix and rosary hung on the wall
above it, and by the window an image of the Madonna adorned with gaudy
paper flowers; I was in Italy, in my poor, exiled Italy. And in the
purest Tuscan the eldest sister informed me that Don Gaetano lived in
the garret. I went up there and knocked, but got no answer, so I opened
the door myself. The room was brightly lit by a blazing fire. With his