When he had come within a few steps of the priest, he doffed, with a sweeping motion, the ragged hat that shaded his brow. He was not bad looking, though his face showed signs of dissipation and the top of his head was bald, an indication of premature fatigue and debauch, for he certainly was not over twenty-five years old. The priest responded at once to his bow, feeling that this fellow was not an ordinary tramp, a mechanic out of work, or a jail-bird, hardly able to speak any other tongue but the mysterious language of prisons. "How do you do, Monsieur le Curé?" said the man. The priest answered simply, "I salute you," unwilling to address this ragged stranger as "Monsieur." They considered each other attentively; the abbé felt uncomfortable under the gaze of the tramp, invaded by a feeling of unrest unknown to him. At last the vagabond continued: "Well, do you recognize me?" Greatly surprised, the priest answered: "Why, no, you are a stranger to me." "Ah! you do not know me? Look at me well." "I have never seen you before." "Well, that may be true," replied the man sarcastically, "but let me show you some one whom you will know better." He put on his hat and unbuttoned his coat, revealing his bare chest. A red sash wound around his spare frame held his trousers in place. He drew an envelope from his coat pocket, one of those soiled wrappers destined to protect the sundry papers of the tramp, whether they be stolen or legitimate property, those papers which he guards jealously and uses to protect himself against the too zealous gendarmes. He pulled out a photograph about the size of a folded letter, one of those pictures which were popular long ago; it was yellow and dim with age, for he had carried it around with him everywhere and the heat of his body had faded it. Pushing it under the abbé's eyes, he demanded: "Do you know him?" The priest took a step forward to look and grew pale, for it was his own likeness that he had given Her years ago. Failing to grasp the meaning of the situation he remained silent. The tramp repeated: "Do you recognize him?" And the priest stammered: "Yes." "Who is it?" "It is I." "It is you?" "Yes." "Well, then, look at us both,--at me and at your picture!" Already the unhappy man had seen that these two beings, the one in the picture and the one by his side, resembled each other like brothers; yet he did not understand, and muttered: "Well, what is it you wish?" Then in an ugly voice, the tramp replied: "What do I wish? Why, first I wish you to recognize me." "Who are you?" "Who am I? Ask anybody by the roadside, ask your servant, let's go and ask the mayor and show him this; and he will laugh, I tell you that! Ah! you will not recognize me as your son, papa curé?" The old man raised his arms above his head, with a patriarchal gesture, and muttered despairingly: "It cannot be true!" The young fellow drew quite close to him.