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that they are going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is
an ancient cemetery which is outside the regulations, which
has no uniform, and which is going to retire. It is a shame,
for it is convenient. I have a friend there, Father Mestienne,
the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one privilege, it is
to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a special
permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how
many events have happened since yesterday! Mother Cru-
cifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine—‘
‘Is buried,’ said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.
Fauchelevent caught the word.
‘Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real
buria l.’
A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached
the belled knee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee
again.
‘This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me.
Good, now I am pricking myself on the tongue of my buck-
le. Monsieur Madeleine, don’t stir from here, and wait for
me. Something new has come up. If you are hungry, there is
wine, bread and cheese.’
And he hastened out of the hut, crying: ‘Coming! com-
ing!’
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden
as fast as his crooked leg would permit, casting a sidelong
glance by the way on his melon patch.
Less than ten minutes later, Father Fauchelevent, whose
bell put the nuns in his road to flight, tapped gently at a
door, and a gentle voice replied: ‘Forever! Forever!’ that is