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The man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling into the
grave.
Just as he turned round to get the fifth, Fauchelevent
looked calmly at him and said:—
‘By the way, you new man, have you your card?’
The grave-digger paused.
‘What card?’
‘The sun is on the point of setting.’
‘That’s good, it is going to put on its nightcap.’
‘The gate of the cemetery will close immediately.’
‘Well, what then?’
‘Have you your card?’
‘Ah! my card?’ said the grave-digger.
And he fumbled in his pocket.
Having searched one pocket, he proceeded to search the
other. He passed on to his fobs, explored the first, returned
to the second.
‘Why, no,’ said he, ‘I have not my card. I must have for-
gotten it.’
‘Fifteen francs fine,’ said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green. Green is the pallor of liv-
id people.
‘Ah! Jesus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-a-bas-la-lune!’[17] he
exclaimed. ‘Fifteen francs fine!’
[17] Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg—down with the moon!
‘Three pieces of a hundred sous,’ said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger dropped his shovel.
Fauchelevent’s turn had come.
‘Ah, come now, conscript,’ said Fauchelevent, ‘none of