บทที่ บทที่ 143 · IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO BE DRUNK IN ORDER TO BE IMMORTAL

On the following day, as the sun was declining, the very rare

passers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an

old-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, and tears.

This hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which

spread a large black cross, like a huge corpse with drooping arms. A

mourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a

choir boy in his red cap, followed. Two undertaker’s men in gray

uniforms trimmed with black walked on the right and the left of the

hearse. Behind it came an old man in the garments of a laborer, who

limped along. The procession was going in the direction of the

Vaugirard cemetery.

The handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antennæ of

a pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man’s pocket.

The Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of

Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had its carriage entrance

and its house door, which old people in the quarter, who clung

tenaciously to ancient words, still called the _porte cavalière_ and

the _porte piétonne_.16 The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Rue

Petit-Picpus had obtained permission, as we have already stated, to be

buried there in a corner apart, and at night, the plot of land having

formerly belonged to their community. The grave-diggers being thus

bound to service in the evening in summer and at night in winter, in

this cemetery, they were subjected to a special discipline. The gates

of the Paris cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this

being a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard cemetery was bound by it

like the rest. The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous

grated gates, adjoining a pavilion built by the architect Perronet, and

inhabited by the door-keeper of the cemetery. These gates, therefore,

swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun

disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides. If any grave-digger were

delayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for

him to get out—his grave-digger’s card furnished by the department of

public funerals. A sort of letter-box was constructed in the porter’s

window. The grave-digger dropped his card into this box, the porter

heard it fall, pulled the rope, and the small door opened. If the man

had not his card, he mentioned his name, the porter, who was sometimes

in bed and asleep, rose, came out and identified the man, and opened

the gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out, but had to pay a

fine of fifteen francs.

This cemetery, with its peculiarities outside the regulations,

embarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was suppressed a

little later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, called the

Eastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop

next to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was surmounted by a quince

painted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the

drinkers’ tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign: _Au Bon

Coing_.

The Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cemetery. It was

falling into disuse. Dampness was invading it, the flowers were

deserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being buried in the

Vaugirard; it hinted at poverty. Père-Lachaise if you please! to be

buried in Père-Lachaise is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany.

It is recognized as elegant. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable

enclosure, planted like an old-fashioned French garden. Straight

alleys, box, thuya-trees, holly, ancient tombs beneath aged

cypress-trees, and very tall grass. In the evening it was tragic there.

There were very lugubrious lines about it.

The sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and the

black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery. The lame man

who followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.

The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the

exit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room,—all

had been executed without difficulty, and there had been no hitch.

Let us remark in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion under

the altar of the convent is a perfectly venial offence in our sight. It

is one of the faults which resemble a duty. The nuns had committed it,

not only without difficulty, but even with the applause of their own

consciences. In the cloister, what is called the “government” is only

an intermeddling with authority, an interference which is always

questionable. In the first place, the rule; as for the code, we shall

see. Make as many laws as you please, men; but keep them for

yourselves. The tribute to Cæsar is never anything but the remnants of

the tribute to God. A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle.

Fauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very contented frame

of mind. His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one for the

convent, the other against it, the other with M. Madeleine, had

succeeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean’s composure was one of those

powerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer

felt doubtful as to his success.

What remained to be done was a mere nothing. Within the last two years,

he had made good Father Mestienne, a chubby-cheeked person, drunk at

least ten times. He played with Father Mestienne. He did what he liked

with him. He made him dance according to his whim. Mestienne’s head

adjusted itself to the cap of Fauchelevent’s will. Fauchelevent’s

confidence was perfect.

At the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the

cemetery, Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearse, and said half

aloud, as he rubbed his big hands:—

“Here’s a fine farce!”

All at once the hearse halted; it had reached the gate. The permission

for interment must be exhibited. The undertaker’s man addressed himself

to the porter of the cemetery. During this colloquy, which always is

productive of a delay of from one to two minutes, some one, a stranger,

came and placed himself behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevent. He was

a sort of laboring man, who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and

carried a mattock under his arm.

Fauchelevent surveyed this stranger.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“The man replied:—

“The grave-digger.”

If a man could survive the blow of a cannon-ball full in the breast, he

would make the same face that Fauchelevent made.

“The grave-digger?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“I.”

“Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.”

“He was.”

“What! He was?”

“He is dead.”

Fauchelevent had expected anything but this, that a grave-digger could

die. It is true, nevertheless, that grave-diggers do die themselves. By

dint of excavating graves for other people, one hollows out one’s own.

Fauchelevent stood there with his mouth wide open. He had hardly the

strength to stammer:—

“But it is not possible!”

“It is so.”

“But,” he persisted feebly, “Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.”

“After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Peasant, my

name is Gribier.”

Fauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribier.

He was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man. He had the air of an

unsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-digger.

Fauchelevent burst out laughing.

“Ah!” said he, “what queer things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead,

but long live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who little Father

Lenoir is? He is a jug of red wine. It is a jug of Surêne, morbigou! of

real Paris Surêne? Ah! So old Mestienne is dead! I am sorry for it; he

was a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellow, too. Are you not,

comrade? We’ll go and have a drink together presently.”

The man replied:—

“I have been a student. I passed my fourth examination. I never drink.”

The hearse had set out again, and was rolling up the grand alley of the

cemetery.

Fauchelevent had slackened his pace. He limped more out of anxiety than

from infirmity.

The grave-digger walked on in front of him.

Fauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribier once more in review.

He was one of those men who, though very young, have the air of age,

and who, though slender, are extremely strong.

“Comrade!” cried Fauchelevent.

The man turned round.

“I am the convent grave-digger.”

“My colleague,” said the man.

Fauchelevent, who was illiterate but very sharp, understood that he had

to deal with a formidable species of man, with a fine talker. He

muttered:

“So Father Mestienne is dead.”

The man replied:—

“Completely. The good God consulted his note-book which shows when the

time is up. It was Father Mestienne’s turn. Father Mestienne died.”

Fauchelevent repeated mechanically: “The good God—”

“The good God,” said the man authoritatively. “According to the

philosophers, the Eternal Father; according to the Jacobins, the

Supreme Being.”

“Shall we not make each other’s acquaintance?” stammered Fauchelevent.

“It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Parisian.”

“People do not know each other until they have drunk together. He who

empties his glass empties his heart. You must come and have a drink

with me. Such a thing cannot be refused.”

“Business first.”

Fauchelevent thought: “I am lost.”

They were only a few turns of the wheel distant from the small alley

leading to the nuns’ corner.

The grave-digger resumed:—

“Peasant, I have seven small children who must be fed. As they must

eat, I cannot drink.”

And he added, with the satisfaction of a serious man who is turning a

phrase well:—

“Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst.”

The hearse skirted a clump of cypress-trees, quitted the grand alley,

turned into a narrow one, entered the waste land, and plunged into a

thicket. This indicated the immediate proximity of the place of

sepulture. Fauchelevent slackened his pace, but he could not detain the

hearse. Fortunately, the soil, which was light and wet with the winter

rains, clogged the wheels and retarded its speed.

He approached the grave-digger.

“They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,” murmured Fauchelevent.

“Villager,” retorted the man, “I ought not be a grave-digger. My father

was a porter at the Prytaneum [Town-Hall]. He destined me for

literature. But he had reverses. He had losses on ’change. I was

obliged to renounce the profession of author. But I am still a public

writer.”

“So you are not a grave-digger, then?” returned Fauchelevent, clutching

at this branch, feeble as it was.

“The one does not hinder the other. I cumulate.”

Fauchelevent did not understand this last word.

“Come have a drink,” said he.

Here a remark becomes necessary. Fauchelevent, whatever his anguish,

offered a drink, but he did not explain himself on one point; who was

to pay? Generally, Fauchelevent offered and Father Mestienne paid. An

offer of a drink was the evident result of the novel situation created

by the new grave-digger, and it was necessary to make this offer, but

the old gardener left the proverbial quarter of an hour named after

Rabelais in the dark, and that not unintentionally. As for himself,

Fauchelevent did not wish to pay, troubled as he was.

The grave-digger went on with a superior smile:—

“One must eat. I have accepted Father Mestienne’s reversion. One gets

to be a philosopher when one has nearly completed his classes. To the

labor of the hand I join the labor of the arm. I have my scrivener’s

stall in the market of the Rue de Sèvres. You know? the Umbrella

Market. All the cooks of the Red Cross apply to me. I scribble their

declarations of love to the raw soldiers. In the morning I write love

letters; in the evening I dig graves. Such is life, rustic.”

The hearse was still advancing. Fauchelevent, uneasy to the last

degree, was gazing about him on all sides. Great drops of perspiration

trickled down from his brow.

“But,” continued the grave-digger, “a man cannot serve two mistresses.

I must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining

my hand.”

The hearse halted.

The choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest.

One of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little on a

pile of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.

“What a farce this is!” repeated Fauchelevent in consternation.