"Among a great number of family portraits, which graced the walls of the salon in which we usually spent the evening, was that of my mother. One day I observed it had been removed from its accustomed place. Two neighbours had dined with us. One of them, a M. Dorval, a country lawyer, had always expressed the utmost veneration and respect for my mother. When we reached the salon after dinner, I inquired of my father what had become of my dear mother's picture. 'Cease!' cried my father, significantly pointing to our guests, as though intimating his desire that they should not hear any discussion on the subject; 'the reason of the picture being taken away is that the sight of it continually reminded me of the heavy loss I have sustained, and so prevented my regaining my usual calmness and peace of mind.' 'And where is the portrait at present?' inquired I. Turning towards Madame Roland, with an impatient and uneasy air, he said, 'Where has the picture been put?' 'In the lumber-room,' replied she, casting on me a glance of defiance, evidently under the impression that the presence of witnesses would prevent me from proceeding further in the matter. 'I can easily believe, madame,' cried I, indignantly, 'that the recollection of my mother must have been painful to you; but that was not a sufficient reason for banishing from the walls the likeness of her who, when you were in want and misery, kindly and charitably afforded you the shelter of her roof.'" "Excellent!" exclaimed Rodolph; "yours was, indeed, a stinging and a just reproach."