"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."
Every time he said the word monsieur with his gentle, 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 has a 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.