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 gravedigger.
“They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,” murmured Fauchelevent.
“Villager,” retorted the man, “I ought not be a gravedigger. My father was a porter at the Prytaneum. 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.
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 gravedigger, 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 gravedigger went on with a superior smile:—