Yonder，in the square，I meant to sleep on a stone bench.
A good woman pointed out your house to me，and said to me，Knock there！'
I have knocked.What is this place？
Do you keep an inn？
I have money——savings.One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous，which I earned in the galleys by my labor，in the course of nineteen years.I will pay.
What is that to me？
I have money.
I am very weary；twelve leagues on foot；I am very hungry.
Are you willing that I should remain？'
'Madame Magloire，'said the Bishop，'you will set another place.'
The man advanced three paces，and approached the lamp which was on the table.
'Stop，'he resumed，as though he had not quite understood；'that's not it.
Did you hear？
I am a galley-slave；a convict.I come from the galleys.'
He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper，which he unfolded.
'Here's my passport.
Yellow，as you see.
This serves to expel me from every place where I go.Will you read it？
I know how to read.
I learned in the galleys.There is a school there for those who choose to learn.
Hold，this is what they put on this passport：
Jean Valjean，discharged convict，native of'——that is nothing to you——has been nineteen years in the galleys：
five years for house-breaking and burglary；fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four occasions.He is a very dangerous man.'
There！
Every one has cast me out.Are you willing to receive me？
Is this an inn？
Will you give me something to eat and a bed？
Have you a stable？
'Madame Magloire，'said the Bishop，'you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove.'
We have already explained the character of the two women's obedience.
Madame Magloire retired to execute these orders.
The Bishop turned to the man.
'Sit down，sir，and warm yourself.
We are going to sup in a few moments，and your bed will be prepared while you are supping.'
At this point the man suddenly comprehended.
The expression of his face，up to that time sombre and harsh，bore the imprint of stupefaction，of doubt，of joy，and became extraordinary.He began stammering like a crazy man：——
Really？
What！
You will keep me？
You do not drive me forth？A convict！
You call me sir！
You do not address me as thou？Get out of here，you dog！'is what people always say to me.
I felt sure that you would expel me，so I told you at once who I am.
Oh，what a good woman that was who directed me hither！
I am going to sup！A bed with a mattress and sheets，like the rest of the world！a bed！It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed！
You actually do not want me to go！
You are good people.
Besides，I have money.I will pay well.
Pardon me，monsieur the inn-keeper，but what is your name？
I will pay anything you ask.
You are a fine man.You are an inn-keeper，are you not？'
'I am，'replied the Bishop，'a priest who lives here.'
'A priest！'said the man.
'Oh，what a fine priest！
Then you are not going to demand any money of me？
You are the cure，are you not？the cure of this big church？
Well！
I am a fool，truly！I had not perceived your skull-cap.'
As he spoke，he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner，replaced his passport in his pocket，and seated himself.Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildly at him.
He continued：
'You are humane，Monsieur le Cure；you have not scorned me.A good priest is a very good thing.
Then you do not require me to pay？'
'No，'said the Bishop；'keep your money.
How much have you？Did you not tell me one hundred and nine francs？'
'And fifteen sous，'added the man.
'One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous.
And how long did it take you to earn that？'
'Nineteen years.'
'Nineteen years！'
The Bishop sighed deeply.
The man continued：
'I have still the whole of my money.In four days I have spent only twenty-five sous，which I earned by helping unload some wagons at Grasse.
Since you are an abbe，I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys.
And one day I saw a bishop there.
Monseigneur is what they call him.
He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles.
He is the cure who rules over the other cures，you understand.
Pardon me，I say that very badly；but it is such a far-off thing to me！
You understand what we are！He said mass in the middle of the galleys，on an altar.
He had a pointed thing，made of gold，on his head；it glittered in the bright light of midday.
We were all ranged in lines on the three sides，with cannons with lighted matches facing us.
We could not see very well.
He spoke；but he was too far off，and we did not hear.That is what a bishop is like.'
While he was speaking，the Bishop had gone and shut the door，which had remained wide open.
Madame Magloire returned.
She brought a silver fork and spoon，which she placed on the table.
'Madame Magloire，'said the Bishop，'place those things as near the fire as possible.'
And turning to his guest：
'The night wind is harsh on the Alps.
You must be cold，sir.'
Each time that he uttered the word sir，in his voice which was so gently grave and polished，the man's face lighted up.
Monsieur to a convict is like a glass of water to one of the shipwrecked of the Medusa.Ignominy thirsts for consideration.
'This lamp gives a very bad light，'said the Bishop.
Madame Magloire understood him，and went to get the two silver candlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur's bed-chamber，and placed them，lighted，on the table.
'Monsieur le Cure，'said the man，'you are good；you do not despise me.You receive me into your house.
You light your candles for me.Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate man.'
The Bishop，who was sitting close to him，gently touched his hand.'You could not help telling me who you were.
This is not my house；it is the house of Jesus Christ.
This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name，but whether he has a grief.You suffer，you are hungry and thirsty；you are welcome.And do not thank me；do not say that I receive you in my house.No one is at home here，except the man who needs a refuge.I say to you，who are passing by，that you are much more at home here than I am myself.
Everything here is yours.
What need have I to know your name？
