“This is the first time since I have been here,” said he, “that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?” The Bishop answered:— “My name is Bienvenu Myriel.” “Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?” “I am.” The old man resumed with a half-smile “In that case, you are my bishop?” “Something of that sort.” “Enter, sir.” The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:— “I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill.” “Monsieur,” replied the old man, “I am going to recover.” He paused, and then said:— “I shall die three hours hence.” Then he continued:— “I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one’s caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight.” The old man turned to the shepherd lad:— “Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired.” The child entered the hut. The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:— “I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors.” The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at “His Grace,” was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort “citizen.” He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe. Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.