“Monsieur，sit down and warm yourself；we are going to take supper presently，and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”
At last the man quite understood；his face，the expression of which till then had been gloomy，and hard，now expressed stupefaction，doubt，and joy，and became absolutely wonderful.He began to stutter like a madman.
“True？What？You will keep me？you won’t drive me awaya convict？You call me monsieur and don‘t say，’Get out，dog！‘as everybody else does.I shall have a supper！a bed like other people，with mattress and sheetsa bed！It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed.You are good people！Besides，I have money；I will pay well.I beg your pardon，M.Innkeeper，what is your name？I will pay all you say.You are a fine man.You are an innkeeper，is it not so？”
“I am a priest who lives here，”said the bishop.
“A priest，”said the man.“Oh，noble priest！Then you do not ask any money？”
“No，”said the bishop，“keep your money.How much have you？”
“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous，”said the man.
“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous.And how long did it take you to earn that？”
“Nineteen years.”“Nineteen years！”
The bishop sighed deeply，and shut the door，which had been left wide open.
Mme.Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.
“Mme.Magloire，”said the bishop，“put this plate as near the fire as you can.”Then turning toward his guest he added：“The night wind is raw in the Alps；you must be cold，monsieur.”
Ever y time he said the word monsieur with hisgentle，solemn，and heartily hospitable voice，the man’s countenance lighted up.Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea.
“The lamp，”said the bishop，“gives a very poor light.”
Mme.Magloire understood him，and，going to his bedchamber，took from the mantel the two silver candlesticks，lighted the candles，and placed them on the table.
“M.le Curé，”said the man，“you are good；you don‘t despise me.You take me into your house；you light your candles for me，and I haven’t hid from you where I come from，and how miserable I am.”
The bishop touched his hand gently and said：“You need not tell me who you are.This is not my house；it is the house of Christ.It does not ask any comer whether he hasa name，but whether he has an affliction.You are suffering；you are hungry and thirsty；be welcome.And do not thank me；do not tell me that I take you into my house.This is the home of no man except him who needs an asylum.I tell you，who are a traveller，that you are more at home here than I；whatever is here is yours.What need have I to know your name？Besides，before you told me，I knew it.”
The man opened his eyes in astonishment.“Really？You knew my name？”
“Yes，”answered the bishop，“your name is my brother.”“Stop，stop，M.le Curé，”exclaimed the man，“I was famished when I came in，but you are so kind that now Idon‘t know what I am；that is all gone.”
The bishop looked at him again and said：“You have seen much suffering？”
“Oh，the red blouse，the ball and chain，the plank you sleep on，the heat，the cold，the galley’s screw，the lash，the double chain for nothing，the dungeon for a wordeven when sick in bed，the chain.The dogs，the dogs are happier！nineteen years！and I am fortysix，and now a yellow passport.That is all.”
“Yes，”answered the bishop，“you have left a place of suffering.But listen，there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men.If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men，you are worthy of compassion；if you leave it with goodwill，gentleness，and peace，you are better than any of us.”
