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Updated: June 15, 2025
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. Who was in the coffin? The reader knows. Jean Valjean.
A drive with an undertaker, in a sable-plumed coach! talking about graves! and yet he was a jolly old fellow, wonderfully corpulent, with a smile breaking out easily all over his face, although, once in a while, he looked professionally lugubrious. All the time the scent of that horrible mourning-coach is in my nostrils, and I breathe nothing but a funeral atmosphere. Saturday, August 27th.
Here were many coaches and six horses, and many hacknies, that made it look, methought, as if it were the buriall of a poor poet. He seemed to have many children, by five or six in the first mourning-coach, all boys. To my office, where is come a packet from the Downes from my brother Balty, who with Harman are arrived there, of which this day comes the first news. 16th.
During our drive back in the mourning-coach, the undertaker, his friend, and the landlady's son still kept descanting on the excellence of the grave, "Such a fine grave," "Such a nice grave," "Such a splendid grave," and, really, they seemed almost to think it worth while to die, for the sake of being buried there.
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