, 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?"

"Yes," replied the Bishop, "you are called my brother."

"Stop, Monsieur le Cure," exclaimed the man. "I was very hungry when
I entered here; but you are so good, that I no longer know what has
happened to me."

The Bishop looked at him, and said,--

"You have suffered much?"

"Oh, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat,
cold, toil, the convicts, the thrashings, the double chain for nothing,
the cell for one word; even sick and in bed, still the chain! Dogs, dogs
are happier! Nineteen years! I am forty-six. Now there is the yellow
passport. That is what it is like."

"Yes,