938 Les Miserables
Fauchelevent stood there with his mouth wide open. He
had hardly the strength to stammer:—
‘But it is not possible!’
‘It is so.’
‘But,’ he persisted feebly, ‘Father Mestienne is the grave-
d igger.’
‘After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier.
Peasant, my name is Gribier.’
Fauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribi-
er.
He was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man. He had
the air of an unsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-
digger.
Fauchelevent burst out laughing.
‘Ah!’ said he, ‘what queer things do happen! Father Mes-
tienne is dead, but long live little Father Lenoir! Do you
know who little Father Lenoir is? He is a jug of red wine.
It is a jug of Surene, morbigou! of real Paris Surene? Ah! So
old Mestienne is dead! I am sorry for it; he was a jolly fellow.
But you are a jolly fellow, too. Are you not, comrade? We’ll
go and have a drink together presently.’
The man replied:—
‘I have been a student. I passed my fourth examination.
I never drink.’
The hearse had set out again, and was rolling up the
grand alley of the cemetery.
Fauchelevent had slackened his pace. He limped more
out of anxiety than from infirmity.
The grave-digger walked on in front of him.