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upon him between those four planks. He had, in a manner,
to thaw out, from the tomb.
‘You are benumbed,’ said Fauchelevent. ‘It is a pity that I
have a game leg, for otherwise we might step out briskly.’
‘Bah!’ replied Jean Valjean, ‘four paces will put life into
my legs once more.’
They set off by the alleys through which the hearse had
passed. On arriving before the closed gate and the porter’s
pavilion Fauchelevent, who held the grave-digger’s card in
his hand, dropped it into the box, the porter pulled the rope,
the gate opened, and they went out.
‘How well everything is going!’ said Fauchelevent; ‘what
a capital idea that was of yours, Father Madeleine!’
They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest man-
ner in the world. In the neighborhood of the cemetery, a
shovel and pick are equal to two passports.
The Rue Vaugirard was deserted.
‘Father Madeleine,’ said Fauchelevent as they went along,
and raising his eyes to the houses, ‘Your eyes are better than
mine. Show me No. 87.’
‘Here it is,’ said Jean Valjean.
‘There is no one in the street,’ said Fauchelevent. ‘Give
me your mattock and wait a couple of minutes for me.’
Fauchelevent entered No. 87, ascended to the very top,
guided by the instinct which always leads the poor man to
the garret, and knocked in the dark, at the door of an attic.
A voice replied: ‘Come in.’
It was Gribier’s voice.
Fauchelevent opened the door. The grave-digger’s dwell-