“And fifteen sous,” added the man.
“One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous.
And how long did it take you to earn that?”
“Nineteen years.”
“Nineteen years!”
The Bishop sighed deeply.
The man continued:
“I have still the whole of my money.
In four days I have spent only twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload some wagons at Grasse.
Since you are an abbe, I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys.
And one day I saw a bishop there.
Monseigneur is what they call him.
He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles.
He is the cure who rules over the other cures, you understand.
Pardon me, I say that very badly; but it is such a far-off thing to me!
You understand what we are!
He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it glittered in the bright light of midday.
We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing us.
We could not see very well.
He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not hear.
That is what a bishop is like.”
While he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had remained wide open.
Madame Magloire returned.
She brought a silver fork and spoon, which she placed on the table.
“Madame Magloire,” said the Bishop, “place those things as near the fire as possible.”
And turning to his guest: “The night wind is harsh on the Alps.
You must be cold, sir.”
Each time that he uttered the word sir, in his voice which was so gently grave and polished, the man’s face lighted up.
Monsieur to a convict is like a glass of water to one of the shipwrecked of the Medusa.
Ignominy thirsts for consideration.
“This lamp gives a very bad light,” said the Bishop.
Madame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver candlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur’s bed-chamber, and placed them, lighted, on the table.
“Monsieur le Cure,” said the man, “you are good; you do not despise me.
You receive me into your house.
You light your candles for me.
Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate man.”
The Bishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand.
“You could not help telling me who you were.
This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ.
This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief.
You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome.
And do not thank me; do not say that I receive you in my house.
No one is at home here, except the man who needs a refuge.
I say to you, who are passing by, that you are much more at home here than I am myself.
Everything here is yours.
What need have I to know your name?
Besides, before you told me you had one which I knew.”
The man opened his eyes in astonishment.
“Really?
You knew what I was called?”