We will sup in a few moments and your
bed will be prepared while we are supping."
"What, you call me sir--You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets,
like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in
a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,--what is your name?"
"I am only an old priest who lives here."
"Then you will not demand my money of me?"
"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.
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