"Ah, my card!" the grave-digger said; and he felt in one pocket and then in another, he passed to his fobs and turned them inside out.
"No," he said; "I have not got my card, I must have forgotten it."
"Fifteen francs' fine," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green, for the pallor of livid men is green.
"Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed; "fifteen francs' fine!"
"Three one hundred sous pieces," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger let his shovel fall, and Fauchelevent's turn had arrived.
"Come, conscript," said the old gardener, "no despair; you need not take advantage of the grave to commit suicide. Fifteen francs are fifteen francs, and besides, you can avoid paying them. I am old and you a new-comer, and I am up to all the tricks and dodges. I will give you a piece of friendly advice. One thing is clear,--the sun is setting; it is touching the dome, and the cemetery will shut in five minutes."
"Five minutes will not be enough for you to fill up this grave, which is deuced deep, and reach the gates in time to get out before they close."
"In that case, fifteen francs' fine. But you have time,--where do you live?"
"Hardly a quarter of an hour's walk from here, at No. 87, Rue de Vaugirard."
"You have just time enough to get out, if you look sharp."
"Once outside the gates, you will gallop home and fetch your card; and when you return the porter will open the gate for you gratis. And you will bury your dead woman, whom I will stop from running away during your absence."
The grave-digger, who was beside himself with gratitude, shook his hand and ran off.
When he had disappeared behind a clump of trees, Fauchelevent listened till his footsteps died away, then bent over the grave, and said in a low voice, "Father Madeleine!"
There was no reply. Fauchelevent trembled; he tumbled all of a heap into the grave, threw himself on the coffin lid, and cried,--
There was silence in the coffin, and Fauchelevent, who could not breathe for trembling, took out his cold-chisel and hammer and pried off the coffin lid. He could see Jean Valjean's face in the gloom, pale, and with the eyes closed. The gardener's hair stood on end; he got up, and then fell against the side of the grave. He gazed at Jean Valjean, who lay livid and motionless. Fauchelevent murmured in a voice faint as a breath, "He is dead!"