with Father Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will happen, he will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he is not drunk, I shall say to him: ‘Come and drink a bout while the Bon Coing is open.’ I carry him off, I get him drunk—it does not take long to make Father Mestienne drunk, he always has the beginning of it about him—I lay him under the table, I take his card, so that I can get into the cemetery again, and I return without him. Then you have no longer anyone but me to deal with. If he is drunk, I shall say to him: ‘Be off; I will do your work for you.’ Off he goes, and I drag you out of the hole.”
Jean Valjean held out his hand, and Fauchelevent precipitated himself upon it with the touching effusion of a peasant.
“That is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well.”
“Provided nothing goes wrong,” thought Fauchelevent. “In that case, it would be terrible.”
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 passersby on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, crossbones, 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.