“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; today, the