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Fauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribier once more
in review.
He was one of those men who, though very young, have
the air of age, and who, though slender, are extremely
strong.
‘Comrade!’ cried Fauchelevent.
The man turned round.
‘I am the convent grave-digger.’
‘My colleague,’ said the man.
Fauchelevent, who was illiterate but very sharp, under-
stood that he had to deal with a formidable species of man,
with a fine talker. He muttered:
‘So Father Mestienne is dead.’
The man replied:—
‘Completely. The good God consulted his note-book
which shows when the time is up. It was Father Mestienne’s
turn. Father Mestienne died.’
Fauchelevent repeated mechanically: ‘The good God—‘
‘The good God,’ said the man authoritatively. ‘According
to the philosophers, the Eternal Father; according to the Ja-
cobins, the Supreme Being.’
‘Shall we not make each other’s acquaintance?’ stam-
mered Fauchelevent.
‘It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Parisian.’
‘People do not know each other until they have drunk
together. He who empties his glass empties his heart. You
must come and have a drink with me. Such a thing cannot
be refused.’
‘Business first.’