The Bishop’s face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is peculiar to hospitable natures. “To table!” he cried vivaciously. As was his custom when a stranger supped with him, he made the man sit on his right. Mademoiselle Baptistine, perfectly peaceable and natural, took her seat at his left. The Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself, according to his custom. The man began to eat with avidity. All at once the Bishop said: “It strikes me there is something missing on this table.” Madame Magloire had, in fact, only placed the three sets of forks and spoons which were absolutely necessary. Now, it was the usage of the house, when the Bishop had any one to supper, to lay out the whole six sets of silver on the table-cloth—an innocent ostentation. This graceful semblance of luxury was a kind of child’s play, which was full of charm in that gentle and severe household, which raised poverty into dignity. Madame Magloire understood the remark, went out without saying a word, and a moment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded by the Bishop were glittering upon the cloth, symmetrically arranged before the three persons seated at the table. CHAPTER IV—DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER. Now, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannot do better than to transcribe here a passage from one of Mademoiselle Baptistine’s letters to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversation between the convict and the Bishop is described with ingenious minuteness. “. . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a starving man. However, after supper he said: “‘Monsieur le Curé of the good God, all this is far too good for me; but I must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them keep a better table than you do.’ “Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:— “‘They are more fatigued than I.’ “‘No,’ returned the man, ‘they have more money. You are poor; I see that plainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a curé? Ah, if the good God were but just, you certainly ought to be a curé!’ “‘The good God is more than just,’ said my brother. “A moment later he added:— “‘Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going?’ “‘With my road marked out for me.’ “I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:— “‘I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If the nights are cold, the days are hot.’