by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER V.
A DRUNKARD IS NOT IMMORTAL.
The next day, as the son was setting, the few passers-by on theBoulevard de Maine took off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse,ornamented with death's-head, thigh-bones, and tears. In this hearsewas a coffin covered with a white pall, on which lay an enormous blackcross, like a tall dead woman with hanging arms. A draped carriage, inwhich could be noticed a priest in his surplice, and a chorister inhis red skull-cap, followed. Two mutes in a gray uniform with blackfacings walked on the right and left of the hearse, while behind themcame an old man in workman's garb, who halted. The procession proceededtoward the Vaugirard cemetery. Projecting from the man's pocket couldbe seen the handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold-chisel, and thedouble antennæ of a pair of pincers. This cemetery formed an exceptionto the others in Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had alarge gate and a side gate, which old people in the quarters, tenaciousto old names, called the horseman's gate and the footman's gate. TheBernardo-Benedictines of the Little Picpus had obtained, as we havestated, permission to be buried there in a separate corner, and bynight, because the cemetery had formerly belonged to their community.The grave-diggers, having thus an evening duty in summer and a nightduty in winter, were subjected to special rules. The gates of Parisiancemeteries were closed at that period at sunset; and as this wasa police measure, the Vaugirard cemetery was subjected to it likethe rest. The two gates adjoined a pavilion, built by the architectPerronet, in which the porter lived, and they were inexorably closed atthe moment when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides.If any grave-digger were detained at that moment in the cemetery, hehad only one way to get out, his card, with which the undertaker'sdepartment supplied him. There was a species of letter-box in theshutter of the porter's window; the grave-digger threw his card intothis box, the porter heard it fell, pulled the string, and the smallgate opened. If the grave-digger had not his card he gave his name; theporter got up, recognized him, and opened the gate with his key; but inthat case the grave-digger paid a fine of fifteen francs.
This cemetery, with its own regulations, was a flaw on theadministrative symmetry, and it was put down shortly after 1830. Thecemetery of Mont Parnasse succeeded it, and inherited the famouscabaret attached to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was known by thesign, "Au Bon Coing," one side of which looked out on the drinkingtables, the other on the tombs. It was what might be called a fadedcemetery, and it was falling into decay; green mould was invading it,and the flowers deserted it. Respectable tradesmen did not care tobe buried at Vaugirard, for it had a poverty-stricken smell. La PèreLachaise, if you like! to be buried there was like having a mahoganysuit of furniture. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure,laid out like an old French garden; in it were straight walks,box-trees, holly-trees, old tombs under old yew-trees, and very tallgrass. At night it was a tragical-looking spot.
The sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and blackcross entered the avenue of this cemetery; and the halting man whofollowed it was no other than Fauchelevent. The interment of MotherCrucifixion in the vault under the altar, getting Cosette out, andintroducing Jean Valjean into the dead-house, had been effected withoutthe slightest hitch.
Let us say, in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion beneaththe altar is to us a very venial thing, and one of those faults whichresemble a duty. The nuns had accomplished it, not only without feelingtroubled, but with the applause of their conscience. In a convent,what is called "the Government" is only an interference with theauthorities, which admits of discussion. First comes the rule,--as forthe code, time enough for that. Men, make as many laws as you please,but keep them for yourselves! Rendering unto Cæsar only comes afterrendering unto God, and a prince is nothing by the side of a principle.
Fauchelevent limped after the hearse with great satisfaction; his twinplots, the one with the nuns, the other with M. Madeleine, one for,the other against, the convent, were getting on famously. The calmnessof Jean Valjean was one of those powerful tranquillities which arecontagious, and Fauchelevent no longer doubted of success. What hestill had to do was nothing; during the last two years he had made thegrave-digger drunk a dozen times, and he played with him. He coulddo what he liked with Father Mestienne, and his head exactly fittedFauchelevent's cap. The gardener's security was complete.
At the moment when the procession entered the avenue leading to thecemetery, Fauchelevent looked at the hearse with delight, and rubbedhis huge hands as he said in a low voice, "What a lark!"
All at once the hearse stopped; it had reached the gates, and thepermission for burying must be shown. The undertaker conversed with theporter, and during this colloquy, which occupied two or three minutes,a stranger stationed himself behind the hearse by Fauchelevent's side.He was a sort of workman, wearing a jacket with wide pockets, andholding a spade under his arm. Fauchelevent looked at the stranger, andasked him,--
"Who are you?"
The man replied, "The grave-digger."
If any man could survive a cannon-ball right in the middle of hischest, he would cut such a face as Fauchelevent did.
"Why, Father Mestienne is the grave-digger."
"Was."
"How, was?"
"He is dead."
Fauchelevent was prepared for anything except this, that a grave-diggercould die; and yet, it is true that grave-diggers themselves die; whiledigging holes for others, they prepare one for themselves. Faucheleventstood with widely-opened mouth, and had scarce strength to stammer,--
"Why, it is impossible."
"It is the case."
"But the grave-digger," he went on feebly, "is Father Mestienne."
"After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Rustic, my nameis Gribier."
Fauchelevent, who was very pale, stared at Gribier; he was a tall,thin, livid, thoroughly funereal man. He looked like a broken-downdoctor who had turned grave-digger. Fauchelevent burst into a laugh.
"Ah, what funny things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead, but longlive little Father Lenoir! Do you know who he is? A bottle of Surêne,morbigou! real Paris Surêne. And so Father Mestienne is dead; I feelsorry for him, as he was a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellowtoo, are you not, comrade? We will drink a glass together, eh?"
The man answered, "I have finished my education, and I never drink."
The hearse had set out again, and was now going along the mainavenue. Fauchelevent had decreased his pace, and limped more throughanxiety than infirmity. The grave-digger walked in front of him, andFauchelevent once again surveyed this unknown Gribier. He was oneof those men who when young look old, and who, though thin, are verystrong.
"Comrade!" Fauchelevent cried.
The man turned round.
"I am the convent grave-digger."
"My colleague," the man said.
Fauchelevent, uneducated though very sharp, understood that he had todeal with a formidable species, a fine speaker; he growled,--
"So, then, Father Mestienne is dead."
The man answered, "Completely. Le bon Dieu consulted his bill-book.Father Mestienne was due, and so Father Mestienne is dead."
Fauchelevent repeated mechanically, "Le bon Dieu."
"Le bon Dieu," the man said authoritatively,--"with philosophers theEternal Father; with Jacobins, the Supreme Being."
"Are we not going to form an acquaintance?" Fauchelevent stammered.
"It is formed. You are a rustic, I am a Parisian."
"People never know one another thoroughly till they have drunktogether; for when a man empties his glass, he empties his heart. Youwill come and drink with me; such an offer cannot be refused."
"Work first."
Fauchelevent thought, "It's all over with me."
They had only a few more yards to go before reaching the nuns' corner.The grave-digger added,--
"Peasant, I have seven children to feed, and as they must eat I mustnot drink."
And he added with the
satisfaction of a serious man who is laying downan axiom,--
"Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst."
The hearse left the main avenue, and turned down a smaller one, whichindicated the immediate proximity of the grave. Fauchelevent reducedhis pace, but could not reduce that of the hearse. Fortunately, theground was saturated with winter rains, and rendered their progressslower. He drew closer to the grave-digger.
"There is such a capital Argenteuil wine," he muttered.
"Villager," the man replied, "I was not meant to be a grave-digger. Myfather was porter at the 'Prytanæum,' and destined me for literature,but he was unfortunate in his speculations on the Exchange. Hence Iwas compelled to relinquish the profession of author, but I am still apublic writer."
"Then you are not a grave-digger?" Fauchelevent retorted, clinging tothis very weak branch.
"One does not prevent the other. I cumulate." Fauchelevent did notunderstand the last word.
"Let us go to drink," he said.
Here a remark is necessary. Fauchelevent, however great his agonymight be, proposed drinking, but did not explain himself on one point.Who was to pay? As a general rule, Fauchelevent proposed, and FatherMestienne paid. A proposal to drink evidently resulted from the newsituation created by the new grave-digger, and that proposal thegardener must make; but he left, not undesignedly, the proverbialquarter of an hour called Rabelais' in obscurity. However affectedFauchelevent might be, he did not feel anxious to pay.
The grave-digger continued with a grand smile, "As a man must live,I accepted Father Mestienne's inheritance. When a man has nearlycompleted his course of studies, he is a philosopher; and I have addedthe work of my arms to that of my hand. I have my writer's stall atthe market in the Rue de Sèvres--you know the umbrella market? all thecooks of the Croix Rouge apply to me, and I compose their declarationsto the soldiers. In the morning I write billets-doux, in the evening Idig graves; such is life, rustic."
The hearse went on, and Fauchelevent looked all about him with thegreatest anxiety; heavy drops of perspiration fell from his forehead.
"Still," the grave-digger continued, "a man cannot serve twomistresses, and I must choose between the pick and the pen. The pickruins my hand."
The hearse stopped; the chorister got out of the coach, and then thepriest. One of the small front wheels of the hearse was slightly raisedby a heap of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.
"Here's a trick!" Fauchelevent said in consternation.
