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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesLes Miserables - Volume II - COSETTE - BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM - Chapter V. It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal
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Les Miserables - Volume II - COSETTE - BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM - Chapter V. It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal Post by :Greycap Category :Long Stories Author :Victor Hugo Date :March 2011 Read :795

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Les Miserables - Volume II - COSETTE - BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM - Chapter V. 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 antennae
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 cavaliere
and the porte pietonne.(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.


(16) Instead of porte cochere and porte batarde.


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. Pere-Lachaise if
you please! to be buried in Pere-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 Caesar 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 Surene,
morbigou! of real Paris Surene? 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 Sevres.
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.

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