"No—keep your money. How much have you?"
"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."
"How long did it take you to earn that?"
"Nineteen years."
"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."
"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am."
"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me."
"What! You knew what I was called?"
"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"
"Oh—stop! I—was very hungry when I came in here, but now—my—my hunger is all gone. Oh—you are—so—good—to me."