“Iron has a taste.” “Very well,” said the Bishop; “wooden ones then.” A few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean Valjean had sat on the previous evening. As he ate his breakfast, Monseigneur Welcome remarked gayly to his sister, who said nothing, and to Madame Magloire, who was grumbling under her breath, that one really does not need either fork or spoon, even of wood, in order to dip a bit of bread in a cup of milk. “A pretty idea, truly,” said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went and came, “to take in a man like that! and to lodge him close to one’s self! And how fortunate that he did nothing but steal! Ah, mon Dieu! it makes one shudder to think of it!” As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” said the Bishop. The door opened. A singular and violent group made its appearance on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the other was Jean Valjean. A brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was standing near the door. He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a military salute. “Monseigneur—” said he. At this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed, raised his head with an air of stupefaction. “Monseigneur!” he murmured. “So he is not the curé?” “Silence!” said the gendarme. “He is Monseigneur the Bishop.” In the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his great age permitted. “Ah! here you are!” he exclaimed, looking at Jean Valjean. “I am glad to see you. Well, but how is this? I gave you the candlesticks too, which are of silver like the rest, and for which you can certainly get two hundred francs. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and spoons?” Jean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the venerable Bishop with an expression which no human tongue can render any account of. “Monseigneur,” said the brigadier of gendarmes, “so what this man said is true, then? We came across him. He was walking like a man who is running away. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had this silver—” “And he told you,” interposed the Bishop with a smile, “that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had passed the night? I see how the matter stands. And you have brought him back here? It is a mistake.” “In that case,” replied the brigadier, “we can let him go?” “Certainly,” replied the Bishop. The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled. “Is it true that I am to be released?” he said, in an almost inarticulate voice, and as though he were talking in his sleep. “Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?” said one of the gendarmes. “My friend,” resumed the Bishop, “before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them.”