And as he spoke, and clung to this desperate insistence, this melancholy reflection occurred to him: “And if he drinks, will he get drunk?”
“Provincial,” said the man, “if you positively insist upon it, I consent. We will drink. After work, never before.”
And he flourished his shovel briskly. Fauchelevent held him back.
“It is Argenteuil wine, at six.”
“Oh, come,” said the gravedigger, “you are a bell-ringer. Ding dong, ding dong, that’s all you know how to say. Go hang yourself.”
And he threw in a second shovelful.
Fauchelevent had reached a point where he no longer knew what he was saying.
“Come along and drink,” he cried, “since it is I who pays the bill.”
“When we have put the child to bed,” said the gravedigger.
He flung in a third shovelful.
Then he thrust his shovel into the earth and added:—
“It’s cold tonight, you see, and the corpse would shriek out after us if we were to plant her there without a coverlet.”
At that moment, as he loaded his shovel, the gravedigger bent over, and the pocket of his waistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent’s wild gaze fell mechanically into that pocket, and there it stopped.