III
It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary and his shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his way to the paternal door and, knocking, said gently:
“For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.”
“Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here—a set of vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!”
“Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give him something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in the same need!”
Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of bread, gave it to the poor beggar.
The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’ house, saying:
“For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor pilgrim.”
“What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well I gave to you yesterday—these gluttons would eat one out of house and home.”
“Alas, good wife!” interposed the good old Archimbaud, “didst thou not eat yesterday and yet thou hast eaten again to-day? Who knows but our son may be in the same sad plight!”