“Mme. Magloire, put this plate as near the fire as you can. The night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”
Every time he said the word monsieur with his gently 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 gives a very poor light.”
Mme. Magloire understood him, and going to his bed-chamber, took from the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and placed them on the table.
“M. l’Curé, 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 came from, and how miserable I am.”
“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 traveler, 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.”
“Really? You knew my name?”
“Yes, your name is my brother. You have seen much suffering.”
“Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank to sleep on, the heat, the cold, the galley’s screw, the lash, the double chain for nothing, the dungeon for a word—even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am forty-six, and now a yellow passport. That is all.”
“Yes, you have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with good will, gentleness and peace, you are better than any of us.”