While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion’s ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall. The traveller saw nothing of all this. Once more he inquired, “Will dinner be ready soon?” “Immediately,” responded the host. The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene. “I cannot receive you, sir,” said he. The man half rose. “What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you.” “It is not that.” “What then?” “You have money—” “Yes,” said the man. “And I,” said the host, “have no room.” The man resumed tranquilly, “Put me in the stable.” “I cannot.” “Why?” “The horses take up all the space.” “Very well!” retorted the man; “a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner.” “I cannot give you any dinner.” This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave. He rose. “Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat.” “I have nothing,” said the landlord. The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves: “Nothing! and all that?” “All that is engaged.” “By whom?” “By messieurs the wagoners.” “How many are there of them?” “Twelve.” “There is enough food there for twenty.” “They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance.” The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, “I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain.” Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, “Go away!” At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: “Stop! there’s enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?”