“Why, no,” said he, “I have not my card. I must have forgotten it.”
“Fifteen francs fine,” said Fauchelevent.
The gravedigger turned green. Green is the pallor of livid people.
“Ah! Jesus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-à-bas-la-lune!” he exclaimed. “Fifteen francs fine!”
“Three pieces of a hundred sous,” said Fauchelevent.
The gravedigger dropped his shovel.
Fauchelevent’s turn had come.
“Ah, come now, conscript,” said Fauchelevent, “none of this despair. There is no question of committing suicide and benefiting the grave. Fifteen francs is fifteen francs, and besides, you may not be able to pay it. I am an old hand, you are a new one. I know all the ropes and the devices. I will give you some friendly advice. One thing is clear, the sun is on the point of setting, it is touching the dome now, the cemetery will be closed in five minutes more.”
“That is true,” replied the man.
“Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the grave, it is as hollow as the devil, this grave, and to reach the gate in season to pass it before it is shut.”
“That is true.”
“In that case, a fine of fifteen francs.”
“Fifteen francs.”
“But you have time. Where do you live?”