“Villager,” retorted the man, “I ought not be a gravedigger. My father was a porter at the Prytaneum. 31 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 gravedigger, 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.