Mme. Magloire went out to fulfill her orders.
“Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself; we are going to take supper presently, and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”
“True? What? You will keep me? You won’t drive me away—a convict? You call me monsieur and don’t say, ‘Get out, dog!’ as every one else does. I thought that you would send me away, so I told first off who I am. I shall have a supper? A bed like other people? With mattress and sheets—a bed? It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed. M. Innkeeper, what is your name? I will pay all you say. You are an innkeeper, ain’t you?”
“I am a priest who lives here.”
“A priest, oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask any money?”
“No, keep your money. How much have you?”
“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous.”
“And how long did it take you to earn that?”
“Nineteen years.”
Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.