Виктор Мари Гюго
Les Misérables, v. 2
CHAPTER VI
BETWEEN FOUR PLANKS
Who was in the coffin? It was, as we know, Jean Valjean, who had so contrived as to be able to live in it, and could almost breathe. It is a strange thing to what an extent security of conscience produces other security; the whole combination premeditated by Valjean had been going on since the previous evening, and was still going on excellently. He calculated, like Fauchelevent, upon Father Mestienne, and did not suspect the end. Never was a situation more critical or a calamity more perfect.
The four planks of a coffin exhale a species of terrible peace; and it seemed as if some of the repose of the dead were blended with Valjean's tranquillity. From the bottom of this coffin he had been able to follow and did follow all the phases of the formidable drama which he performed with death. A short while after Fauchelevent had finished nailing down the coffin lid, Valjean felt himself raised and then carried along. Through the cessation of the jolting he felt that they had passed from the pavement to the stamped earth, that is to say, the hearse had left the streets and had turned into the boulevards. From the hollow sound he guessed that he was crossing the bridge of Austerlitz; at the first halt, he understood that he was entering the cemetery, and at the sound he said to himself, "Here is the grave."
He suddenly felt hands seize the coffin, and then noticed a rumbling grating on the planks; he guessed that a rope was being fastened round the coffin in order to let it down into the grave. After this, he felt dizzy for a while; in all probability the men had made the coffin oscillate and let the head down before the feet. He perfectly recovered when he found himself horizontal and motionless. He felt a certain amount of cold, as a chill and solemn voice was raised above him, and he heard the Latin words which he did not understand pass away so slowly that he could distinguish each in turn.
"Qui dormiunt in terræ pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam æternam, et alii in opprobrium, ut videant semper."
A boyish voice said, "De profundis."
The grave voice began again, "Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine!"
The boyish voice replied, "Et lux perpetua luceat ei!"
He heard something like the gentle plash of rain upon the coffin lid; it was probably the holy water. He thought: "It is finished, and I only need a little patience. The priest will go away, and Fauchelevent take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left here till Fauchelevent returns alone, and I shall get out. It will take about an hour."
The grave voice continued, "Requiescat in pace!"
And the boyish voice said, "Amen."
Jean Valjean, who was listening attentively, heard something like the sound of retreating footsteps.
"They are going away," he thought. "I am alone." All at once he heard over his head a noise which appeared to him like a thunder-clap; it was a spadeful of earth falling on the coffin; a second spadeful fell, and one of the holes by which he breathed was stopped; a third spadeful fell, and then a fourth. There are some things stronger than the strongest man, and Jean Valjean lost his senses.
CHAPTER VII
FAUCHELEVENT HAS AN IDEA
This is what took place above the coffin which contained Jean Valjean. When the hearse had gone away, when the priest and the chorister had driven off in the coach, Fauchelevent, who did not once take his eyes off the grave-digger, saw him stoop down and seize his spade, which was standing upright in the heap of earth. Fauchelevent formed a supreme resolution; he placed himself between the grave and the digger, folded his arms, and said, —
"I'll pay."
The grave-digger looked at him in amazement, and replied, —
"What, peasant?"
Fauchelevent repeated, "I'll pay for the wine."
"What wine?"
"The Argenteuil."
"Where is it?"
"At the 'Bon Coing.'"
"Go to the devil!" said the grave-digger.
And he threw a spadeful of earth on the coffin, which produced a hollow sound. Fauchelevent tottered, and was himself ready to fall into the grave. He cried, in a voice with which a death-rattle was beginning to be mingled, —
"Come along, mate, before the 'Bon Coing' closes."
The grave-digger filled his spade again, and Fauchelevent continued, "I'll pay."
And he seized the grave-digger's arm.
"Listen to me, mate; I am the convent grave-digger, and have come to help you. It is a job which can be done by night, so let us begin by having a drink."
And while speaking, while clinging to this desperate pressing, he made the melancholy reflection, "And suppose he does drink, will he get drunk?"
"Provincial," said the grave-digger, "since you are so pressing, I consent. We will drink, but after work, not before."
And he raised his spade, but Fauchelevent restrained him.
"It is Argenteuil wine."
"Why," said the grave-digger, "you must be a bell-ringer; ding, dong, ding, dong. You can only say that. Go and have yourself pulled."
And he threw the second spadeful. Fauchelevent had reached that moment when a man is no longer aware of what he says.
"But come and drink," he cried, "since I offer to pay."
"When we have put the child to bed," said Gribier.
He threw the third spadeful; and then added as he dug the spade into the ground, —
"It will be very cold to-night, and the dead woman would halloo after us if we were to leave her here without a blanket."
At this moment the grave-digger stooped to fill his spade and his jacket-pocket gaped. Fauchelevent's wandering glance fell mechanically into his pocket and remained there. The sun was not yet hidden by the horizon, and there was still sufficient light to distinguish something white at the bottom of this gaping pocket.
All the brightness of which a Picard peasant's eye is capable glistened in Fauchelevent's, – an idea had struck him. Unnoticed by the grave-digger, he thrust his hand into his pocket from behind, and drew out the white thing at the bottom. The grave-digger threw the fourth spadeful into the grave: and as he hurried to raise a fifth, Fauchelevent looked at him with profound calmness, and said, —
"By the way, my novice, have you your card?"
The grave-digger stopped.
"What card?"
"The sun is just going to set."
"Very good, it can put on its nightcap."
"The cemetery gates will be shut."
"Well, and what then?"
"Have you your card?"
"Ah, my card!" the grave-digger said; and he felt in one pocket and then in another, he passed to his fobs and turned them inside out.
"No," he said; "I have not got my card, I must have forgotten it."
"Fifteen francs' fine," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green, for the pallor of livid men is green.
"Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed; "fifteen francs' fine!"
"Three one hundred sous pieces," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger let his shovel fall, and Fauchelevent's turn had arrived.
"Come, conscript," said the old gardener, "no despair; you need not take advantage of the grave to commit suicide. Fifteen francs are fifteen francs, and besides, you can avoid paying them. I am old and you a new-comer, and I am up to all the tricks and dodges. I will give you a piece of friendly advice. One thing is clear, – the sun is setting; it is touching the dome, and the cemetery will shut in five minutes."
"That is true." —
"Five minutes will not be enough for you to fill up this grave, which is deuced deep, and reach the gates in time to get out before they close."
"Perfectly correct."
"In that case, fifteen francs' fine. But you have time, – where do you live?"
"Hardly a quarter of an hour's walk from here, at No. 87, Rue de Vaugirard."
"You have just time enough to get out, if you look sharp."
"So I have."
"Once outside the gates, you will gallop home and fetch your card; and when you return the porter will open the gate for you gratis. And you will bury your dead woman, whom I will stop from running away during your absence."
"I owe you my life, peasant."
"Be off at once," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger, who was beside himself with gratitude, shook his hand and ran off.
When he had disappeared behind a clump of trees, Fauchelevent listened till his footsteps died away, then bent over the grave, and said in a low voice, "Father Madeleine!"
There was no reply. Fauchelevent trembled; he tumbled all of a heap into the grave, threw himself on the coffin lid, and cried, —
"Are you there?"
There was silence in the coffin, and Fauchelevent, who could not breathe for trembling, took out his cold-chisel and hammer and pried off the coffin lid. He could see Jean Valjean's face in the gloom, pale, and with the eyes closed. The gardener's hair stood on end; he got up, and then fell against the side of the grave. He gazed at Jean Valjean, who lay livid and motionless. Fauchelevent murmured in a voice faint as a breath, "He is dead!"
And drawing himself up, he folded his arms so violently that his clenched fists struck his shoulders, and cried, "That is the way in which I save him!"
Then the poor old man began sobbing and soliloquizing; for it is a mistake to suppose that there is no soliloquy in nature. Powerful agitations often talk aloud.
"It is Father Mestienne's fault. Why did that ass die? Had he any occasion to go off the hooks so unexpectedly? It is he who has killed M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine! he is in his coffin, and it is all over with him. Has such a thing as this any common-sense? Oh, my goodness, he is dead! Well, and what shall I do with his little girl? What will the green-grocer say? Is it possible that such a man can die in such a way? When I think how he got under my cart! Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine! By Heaven, he is suffocated, as I said he would be, and he would not believe me. Well I this is a pretty trick of my performance. The worthy man is dead, the best man among all God's good people; and his little one! Well, I sha'n't go back to the convent, but stop here. To have done such a thing as this! it is not worth while being two old men to be two old fools. But how did he manage to get into the convent? That was the beginning, and a man ought not to do things like that. Father Madeleine, Madeleine, Monsieur Madeleine, Monsieur le Maire! He does not hear me. Get out of it now as best you can."
And he tore his hair. A shrill grating sound was audible at a distance through the trees; it was the closing of the cemetery gate. Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all at once bounded back to the further end of the grave, – Jean Valjean's eyes were open and staring at him.
If seeing a death is fearful, seeing a resurrection is nearly as frightful. Fauchelevent became like stone. He was pale, haggard, confounded by such excessive emotion, not knowing if he had to do with a dead man or a living man, and looking at Jean Valjean, who looked at him.
"I was falling asleep," said Valjean.
And he sat up. Fauchelevent fell on his knees.
"Holy Virgin! how you frightened me!"
Then he rose and cried, – "Thank you, Father Madeleine!"
Jean Valjean had only fainted, and the fresh air aroused him again. Joy is the reflux of terror; and Fauchelevent had almost as much difficulty in recovering himself as had Jean Valjean.
"Then you are not dead! Oh, what a clever fellow you are! I called to you so repeatedly that you came back. When I saw your eyes closed, I said, 'There, he is suffocated!' I should have gone stark mad, fit for a strait waistcoat, and they would have put me in Bicêtre. What would you have me do if you were dead; and your little girl? The green-grocer's wife would not have understood it at all. A child is left upon her hands, and the grandfather is dead! What a story! Oh, my good saints in Paradise, what a story! Well, you are alive, that's the great thing."
"I am cold," said Valjean.
This remark completely recalled Fauchelevent to the reality, which was urgent. These two men, who had scarce recovered, had a troubled mind, they knew not why, which emanated from the gloomy place where they were.
"Let us get out of this at once," said Fauchelevent.
He felt in his pocket and produced a flask.
"But a dram first," he said.
The flask completed what the fresh air had begun. Valjean drank a mouthful of spirits and regained perfect possession of himself. He got out of the coffin, and helped Fauchelevent to nail on the lid again; three minutes later they were out of the grave.
Fauchelevent was calm, and took his time. The cemetery was closed, and there was no fear of Gribier returning. That "conscript" was at home, busily seeking his card, and prevented from finding it because it was in Fauchelevent's pocket. Without it he could not return to the cemetery. Fauchelevent took the spade, and Valjean the pick, and they together buried the empty coffin. When the grave was filled op, Fauchelevent said, —
"Come along; you carry the pick and I will carry the spade."
The night was falling.
Jean Valjean felt some difficulty in moving and walking; for in the coffin he had grown stiff, and become to some extent a corpse. The rigidity of death had seized upon him between these four planks, and he must, so to speak, become thawed.
"You are stiff," said Fauchelevent; "it is a pity that I am a cripple, or we would have a run."
"Nonsense," said Valjean, "half a dozen strides will make my legs all right again."
They went along the avenues by which the hearse had passed, and on reaching the gate, Fauchelevent threw the grave-digger's card into the box; the porter pulled the string, and they went out.
"How famously it has all gone," said Fauchelevent; "it was an excellent idea you had, Father Madeleine!"
They passed through the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest way in the world, for in the vicinity of a cemetery, a spade and a pick are two passports. The Rue de Vaugirard was deserted.
"Father Madeleine," Fauchelevent said, as they walked along, "you have better eyes than I have, so show me No. 87."
"Here it is," said Valjean.
"There is no one in the street," Fauchelevent continued; "give me the pick, and wait for me a couple of minutes."
Fauchelevent entered No. 87, went right to the top, guided by that instinct which ever leads the poor man to the garret, and rapped at a door in the darkness. A voice replied, "Come in." It was Gribier's voice.
Fauchelevent pushed the door. The grave-digger's room was like all these wretched abodes, an impoverished and crowded garret. A packing-case – possibly a coffin – occupied the place of a chest of drawers, a butter-jar was the water-cistern, a paillasse represented the bed, while the floor filled the place of chairs and table. In one corner, on an old ragged piece of carpet, were a thin woman and a heap of children. The whole of this poor interior displayed signs of a convulsion, and it seemed as if an earthquake "for one" had taken place there. The blankets were torn away, the rags scattered about, the jug was broken, the mother had been crying, and the children probably beaten, – there were evident signs of an obstinate and savage search. It was plain that the grave-digger had been wildly looking for his card, and made everything in the garret responsible for it, from his jug to his wife. He looked desperate, but Fauchelevent was too eager to notice this sad side of his success; he went in, and said, "I have brought you your spade and pick."
Gribier looked at him in stupefaction.
"Is it you, peasant?"
"And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the porter of the cemetery."
And he placed the shovel and pick on the floor.
"What does this mean?" Gribier asked.
"It means that you let your card fall out of your pocket, that I found it on the ground when you had left, that I have buried the dead woman, filled up the grave, done your work, the porter will give you your card, and you will not pay fifteen francs. That's what it is, conscript!"
"Thanks, villager," said Gribier, quits dazzled, "next time I will pay for a bottle."
CHAPTER VIII
A SUCCESSFUL EXAMINATION
An hour later two men and a child presented themselves in the darkness of night at No. 69, Little Rue Picpus. The elder of the two men raised the knocker and rapped.
The two men had fetched Cosette from the green-grocer's, where Fauchelevent had left her on the previous evening. Cosette had spent the four-and-twenty hours in understanding nothing and silently trembling; she trembled so greatly that she had not cried, nor had she eaten nor slept. The worthy green-grocer had asked her a hundred questions; but had only obtained as answer a gloomy look, ever the same. Cosette did not breathe a syllable of what she had seen or heard during the last two days; for she guessed that she was passing through a crisis, and felt deeply that she must be "good." Who has not experienced the sovereign power of the words, "say nothing," uttered with a certain accent in the ear of a little startled being? Fear is dumb; besides, no one can keep a secret like a child.
The only thing was, that when she saw Jean Valjean again after these mournful four-and-twenty hours, she uttered such a cry of joy that any thoughtful person who had heard it would have divined in this cry an escape from a gulf.
Fauchelevent belonged to the convent, and knew all the pass-words; hence doors readily opened to him, and thus was solved the double and startling problem, "how to get in, and how to get out." The porter, who had his instructions, opened the little gate which communicated between the court-yard and the garden, in the wall of the former facing the gateway, which might still be seen from the street twenty years ago. The porter showed them all three through this gate, and thence they reached the inner private parlor where Fauchelevent had received the orders of the prioress on the previous day.
The prioress was waiting for them, rosary in hand, and a vocal mother, with her veil down, was standing near her. A discreet candle lit up, or to speak more correctly, pretended to light up the parlor. The prioress took a thorough look at Jean Valjean, for no eye examines like a drooping one. Then she questioned him.
"Are you the brother?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother," Fauchelevent answered.
"What is your name?"
Fauchelevent answered: "Ultime Fauchelevent."
He had really had a brother of that name, who was dead.
"Where do you come from?"
Fauchelevent.– "From Picquigny near Amiens."
"What is your age?"
F.– "Fifty."
"What is your trade?"
F.– "Gardener."
"Are you a good Christian?"
F.– "All the members of our family are so."
"Is this little girl yours?"
F.– "Yes, Reverend Mother."
"Are you her father?"
F.– "Her grandfather."
The vocal mother said to the prioress in a whisper, "He answers well."
Jean Valjean had not said a word. The prioress looked attentively at Cosette, and whispered to the vocal mother, "She will be ugly."
The two mothers consulted for a few minutes in a very low voice in a corner of the parlor, and then the prioress turned and said, —
"Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap and bell, for we shall require two in future."
On the morrow two bells were really heard in the garden, and the nuns could not resist the temptation of raising a corner of their veils. They could see under the shade of the trees two men digging side by side, Fauvent and another. It was an enormous event; and silence was so far broken that they whispered, "It is an assistant gardener," while the vocal mothers added, "It is a brother of Father Fauvent's."
Jean Valjean was in fact permanently installed; he had the leathern knee-cap and bell, and was henceforth official. He called himself Ultime Fauchelevent. The most powerful determining cause of his admission was the remark of the prioress with reference to Cosette, – "She will be ugly." The prioress, once she had prognosticated this, felt an affection for Cosette, and gave her a place in the boarding-school. This is very logical after all; for although there may be no looking-glasses in a convent, women are conscious of their face. Now, girls who feel themselves pretty have a disinclination to take the veil; and as profession is generally in an inverse ratio to the beauty, more is hoped from ugly than from pretty girls.
All this adventure aggrandized Fauchelevent, for he had a three-fold success, – with Jean Valjean, whom he saved and sheltered; with Gribier, who said to himself, "He saved me fifteen francs;" and with the convent, which, thanks to him, while keeping the coffin of Mother Crucifixion under the altar, eluded Cæsar and sanctified God. There was a coffin with a body at the Little Picpus, and a coffin without a body in the Vaugirard cemetery; public order was doubtless deeply affected by this, but did not perceive the fact. As for the convent, its gratitude to Fauchelevent was great; he became the best of servants, and most precious of gardeners. On the archbishop's very next visit, the prioress told the whole affair to the Grandeur, partly in confusion, and partly in a boastful spirit. The archbishop, on leaving the convent, spoke about it applaudingly and in a whisper to M. de Latil, Confessor to Monseigneur, and afterwards Archbishop of Reims and Cardinal. The admiration felt for Fauchelevent travelled all the way to Rome; and we have seen a letter addressed by the then reigning Pope, Leo XII., to one of his relatives, Monsignore, in the Paris Nunciature, and called, like himself, Della Genga, in which were the following lines, – "It appears that there is at a convent in Paris an excellent gardener, who is a holy man, of the name of Fauvent." Nothing of all this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut; he went on grafting, hoeing, and covering his melon beds, quite unaware of his excellence and sanctity. He no more suspected his glory than does a Durham or Surrey steer whose portrait is published in the Illustrated London News, with the inscription "The ox that gained the Short-horn prize."
