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"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."
He heard something like the gentle patter of several drops of rain on the plank which covered him. It was probably the holy water. He thought: "This will be over soon now. Patience for a little while longer. The priest will take his departure. Fauchelevent will take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left. Then Fauchelevent will return alone, and I shall get out.
The grave-digger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. An old fellow of the old school. The grave-digger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the grave-digger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave.
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.
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?" "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.
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, 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.
I have a friend there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a special permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many events have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine " "Is buried," said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly. Fauchelevent caught the word.
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."
I shall follow; that is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse halts, the undertaker's men knot a rope around your coffin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water, and takes his departure. I am left alone with Father Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you.
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