Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 5 It is not Necessary to be Drunk in o
On the following day, as the sun was declining, the very rare passers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, and tears. This hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which spread a large black cross, like a huge corpse with drooping arms. A mourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a choir boy in his red cap, followed. Two undertaker's men in gray uniforms trimmed with black walked on the right and the left of the hearse. Behind it came an old man in the garments of a laborer, who limped along. The procession was going in the direction of the Vaugirard cemetery.
The handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antennae of a pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man's pocket.
The Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had its carriage entrance and its house door, which old people in the quarter, who clung tenaciously to ancient words, still called the porte cavaliere and the porte pietonne.[16] The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Rue Petit-Picpus had obtained permission, as we have already stated, to be buried there in a corner apart, and at night, the plot of land having formerly belonged to their community. The grave-diggers being thus bound to service in the evening in summer and at night in winter, in this cemetery, they were subjected to a special discipline. The gates of the Paris cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this being a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard cemetery was bound by it like the rest. The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous grated gates, adjoining a pavilion built by the architect Perronet, and inhabited by the door-keeper of the cemetery. These gates, therefore, swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides. If any grave-digger were delayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for him to get out-- his grave-digger's card furnished by the department of public funerals. A sort of letter-box was constructed in the porter's window. The grave-digger dropped his card into this box, the porter heard it fall, pulled the rope, and the small door opened. If the man had not his card, he mentioned his name, the porter, who was sometimes in bed and asleep, rose, came out and identified the man, and opened the gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out, but had to pay a fine of fifteen francs.
[16] Instead of porte cochere and porte batarde.
This cemetery, with its peculiarities outside the regulations, embarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was suppressed a little later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, called the Eastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop next to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was surmounted by a quince painted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the drinkers' tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign: Au Bon Coing.
The Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cemetery. It was falling into disuse. Dampness was invading it, the flowers were deserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being buried in the Vaugirard; it hinted at poverty. Pere-Lachaise if you please! to be buried in Pere-Lachaise is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany. It is recognized as elegant. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure, planted like an old-fashioned French garden. Straight alleys, box, thuya-trees, holly, ancient tombs beneath aged cypress-trees, and very tall grass. In the evening it was tragic there. There were very lugubrious lines about it.
The sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and the black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery. The lame man who followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.
The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the exit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room,-- all had been executed without difficulty, and there had been no hitch.
Let us remark in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion under the altar of the convent is a perfectly venial offence in our sight. It is one of the faults which resemble a duty. The nuns had committed it, not only without difficulty, but even with the applause of their own consciences. In the cloister, what is called the "government" is only an intermeddling with authority, an interference which is always questionable. In the first place, the rule; as for the code, we shall see. Make as many laws as you please, men; but keep them for yourselves. The tribute to Caesar is never anything but the remnants of the tribute to God. A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle.
Fauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very contented frame of mind. His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one for the convent, the other against it, the other with M. Madeleine, had succeeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer felt doubtful as to his success.
What remained to be done was a mere nothing. Within the last two years, he had made good Father Mestienne, a chubby-cheeked person, drunk at least ten times. He played with Father Mestienne. He did what he liked with him. He made him dance according to his whim. Mestienne's head adjusted itself to the cap of Fauchelevent's will. Fauchelevent's confidence was perfect.
At the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the cemetery, Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearse, and said half aloud, as he rubbed his big hands:--
"Here's a fine farce!"
All at once the hearse halted; it had reached the gate. The permission for interment must be exhibited. The undertaker's man addressed himself to the porter of the cemetery. During this colloquy, which always is productive of a delay of from one to two minutes, some one, a stranger, came and placed himself behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevent. He was a sort of laboring man, who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and carried a mattock under his arm.
Fauchelevent surveyed this stranger.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"The man replied:--
"The grave-digger."
If a man could survive the blow of a cannon-ball full in the breast, he would make the same face that Fauchelevent made.
"The grave-digger?"
"Yes."
"You?"
"I."
"Father Mestienne is the grave-digger."
"He was."
"What! He was?"
"He is dead."
Fauchelevent had expected anything but this, that a grave-digger could die. It is true, nevertheless, that grave-diggers do die themselves. By dint of excavating graves for other people, one hollows out one's own.
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-digger."
"After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Peasant, my name is Gribier."
Fauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribier.
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 Mestienne 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 St drops of perspiration trickled down from his brow.
"But," continued the grave-digger, "a man cannot serve two mistresses. I must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining my hand."
The hearse halted.
The choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest.
One of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little on a pile of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.
"What a farce this is!" repeated Fauchelevent in consternation.
第二天，太阳偏西时，梅恩大路上的寥寥几个来往行人对一辆过路的灵车脱帽①，那灵车是老式的，上面画了骷髅、大腿骨和眼泪。灵车里有一口棺材，棺材上遮着一块白布，布上摊着一个极大的十字架，好象一个高大的死人，向两边垂着两条胳膊，仰卧在那上面。后面跟着一辆有布帷的四轮轿车，行人可以望见那轿车里坐着一个穿白袈裟的神甫和一个戴红瓜皮帽的唱诗童子。两个灰色制服上有黑丝带盘花装饰的殡仪执事走在灵车的左右两旁。后面还有一个穿着工人服的瘸腿老人。送葬行列正向伏吉拉尔公墓走去。
①欧俗，看见灵车走过的人都肃然脱帽。
从那老人的衣袋里，露出一段铁锈的柄、一把钝口凿和一把取钉钳的两个把手。
伏吉拉尔公墓，在巴黎的几个公墓中是独特的。它有它的特殊习惯，正如它的大车门和侧门在附近一带那些死记着古老字眼的老人们的嘴里还叫做骑士门和行人门一样上的毛病，多半是由于他心里焦急。
埋葬工人走在他前头。
割风对那个突如其来的格利比埃，又仔细打量了一番。
那是一个那种年轻而显得年老、干瘪而又非常壮实的人。
“伙计！”割风减道。
那人回转头来。
“我是修院里的埋葬工人。”
“老前辈。”那个人说。
割风虽然是个老粗，却也精细，他懂得他遇到了一个不好对付的家伙，一个能言善道的人物。
他嘟囔着：
“想不到，梅斯千爷爷死了。”
那人回答说：
“整个完了。慈悲的天主翻了他的生死簿。梅斯千爷爷的期限到了。梅斯千爷爷便死了。”
割风机械地重复说：
“慈悲的天主……”
“慈悲的天主，”那人严肃地说，“按照哲学家的称呼，是永恒之父，按照雅各派修士①的称呼，是上帝。”
①雅各派修士属天主教多明我会体系。
“难道我们不打算彼此介绍一下吗？”割风吞吞吐吐地问。
“已经介绍过了。您是乡下佬，我是巴黎人。”
“不喝不成知己，干杯就是倾心。您得和我去霎囙公墓，由于它那些不合常规的规定，影响了行政上的管理。它在一八三○年过后不久便被取消了。巴纳斯山公墓，也叫东坟场，接替了它，并且接管了伏吉拉尔公墓那家官商合营的著名饮料店，那饮料店的房顶顶着一个画在木板上的木瓜，店面在转角处，一面对着客座，一面对着坟墓，招牌上写着：“好木瓜”。
伏吉拉尔公墓可以说是一个枯萎了的公墓。它没落下来了，它被苔藓侵袭又被花卉遗弃。大户人家都不大乐意葬在伏吉拉尔，免得寒酸相。拉雪兹神甫公墓①，恭喜恭喜！葬在拉雪兹神甫公墓就象有了红木家具一样。那地方给人一种华贵的印象。伏吉拉尔公墓是个古色古香的园子，树木是按照法国古老园林格局栽植的。一条条笔直的小路，两旁有冬青、侧柏、枸骨叶冬青、古老的坟冢在古老的水松下面，草很高。入夜一片悲凉气象。有些景色极其阴森。
①拉雪兹神甫（PèreALachaise），法王路易十四的忏悔神甫，他在巴黎东郊有块地，一八○四年改为公墓，并以他的名字命名。
那辆盖了一块白布和一个黑十字架的灵车走进伏吉拉尔公墓大路时，太阳还没有下去。走在车子后面的那个瘸腿老人便是割风。
受难嬷嬷被安葬在祭台下面的地窖里，珂赛特被送出大门，冉阿让溜进太平间，这一切都进行得很顺利，没有发生任何阻碍。
我们附带说一句，把受难嬷嬷埋葬在修院祭台下这件事，在我们看来完全是无足轻重的。那种错误似乎也无悖于为人之道。修女们办妥这件事，她们不但没有感到慌乱，反而觉得心安理得。在修院里，一般所说的“政府”，只意味着当局的干预，这种干预总是成问题的。首要的是教规，至于法律，慢慢再看。人呀，你们高兴订多少法律，尽量去订你们的，但是请你们都留给自己使用吧。对人主的贡献从来就只能是对天主的贡献的剩余。王子在理性面前也一文不值。
割风得意洋洋地跟着那灵车一步一拐。他那双重秘密，他那对孪生的诡计，一个是和修女们串通的，另一个是和马德兰先生串通的，一个是向着修院的，另一个是背着修院的，都一齐如了愿。冉阿让的镇静是种具有强大感染力的镇静。割风不再怀疑是否成功这件事了。剩下来要做的事都算不了什么。两年以来，他把那埋葬工人，忠厚老实的梅斯千爷爷，一个脸胖胖的老好人，灌醉过十次。对梅斯千爷爷，他一向把他当作掌中物，随意摆布。他常把自己的意志和奇想当作帽子似的强加在他的头上。梅斯千的脑袋总迁就割风的帽子。割风自信有绝对的把握。
当行列转入那条通向公墓的大路时，割风，心里痒痒的，望着那灵车，搓着一双大手，细声说：
“这玩笑开得可不小！”
忽然，那灵车停住了，大家已经走到铁栏门。得交验掩埋许可证。殡仪馆的一个人和那公墓的门房会了面。交涉总得使大家等上两三分钟，正在交涉的时候，有个人，谁也不认识的，走来站在灵车后面割风的旁边。这是一个工人模样的人，穿一件有大口袋的罩衣，胳肢窝里夹着一把十字镐。
割风望着那个阳生人。
“您是谁？”他问。
那个人回答：
“埋葬工人。”
假如有个人当胸受了一颗炮弹而不死，他的面孔一定会和割风当时的面孔一个样。
“埋葬工人？”
“对。”
“您？”
“我。”
“埋葬工人是梅斯千爷爷。”
“从前是的。”
“怎么！从前是的？”
“他死了。”
割风什么都料到了，却没有料到这一着，没有料到埋葬工人也能死。那却是事实，埋葬工人一样会死。人在不断替别人挖掘坟坑时，也逐渐掘开了自己的坟坑。
割风张着嘴，呆住了。他费了大劲，才结结巴巴说了一句：
“这，这是不会有的事。”
“现在就有了。”
“可是，”他又上气不接下气地接着说，“埋葬工人，是梅斯千爷爷嘛。”
“拿破仑以后，路易十八。梅斯千以后，格利比埃。乡下佬，我叫格利比埃。”
割风面无人色，打量着格利比埃。
那是个瘦长、脸青、冷酷到极点的汉子。他那神气就象一个行医不得志改业做埋葬工人的医生。
割风放声大笑。
“哈！真是怪事！梅斯千爷爷死了。梅斯千小爷爷死了，但是勒诺瓦小爷爷万岁！您知道勒诺瓦小爷爷是什么吗？那是柜台上六法郎一瓶的红酒。那是叙雷讷的出品，真捧！巴黎地道的叙雷讷！哈！他死了，梅斯千这老头儿！我心里多么不好受，那是个快活人。其实您也是个快活人。对不对，伙计？等一会儿，我们去干一杯。”
那人回答说：“我念过书。我念完了第四班①。我从来不喝酒。”
①法国中小学十年一贯制，第四班即六年级。
灵车又走动了，在公墓的大路上前进。
割风放慢了脚步，这不完全是由于他腿上的毛病，多半是由于他心里焦急。
埋葬工人走在他前头。
割风对那个突如其来的格利比埃，又仔细打量了一番。
那是一个那种年轻而显得年老、干瘪而又非常壮实的人。
“伙计！”割风减道。
那人回转头来。
“我是修院里的埋葬工人。”
“老前辈。”那个人说。
割风虽然是个老粗，却也精细，他懂得他遇到了一个不好对付的家伙，一个能言善道的人物。
他嘟囔着：
“想不到，梅斯千爷爷死了。”
那人回答说：
“整个完了。慈悲的天主翻了他的生死簿。梅斯千爷爷的期限到了。梅斯千爷爷便死了。”
割风机械地重复说：
“慈悲的天主……”
“慈悲的天主，”那人严肃地说，“按照哲学家的称呼，是永恒之父，按照雅各派修士①的称呼，是上帝。”
①雅各派修士属天主教多明我会体系。
“难道我们不打算彼此介绍一下吗？”割风吞吞吐吐地问。
“已经介绍过了。您是乡下佬，我是巴黎人。”
“不喝不成知己，干杯就是倾心。您得和我去喝一盅。这不该推辞。”
“工作第一。”
割风心里想道：“我完了。”
车轮只消再转几圈，便到修女们那个角落的小路上了。
埋葬工人接着说：
“我有七个小把戏得养活。他们要吃饭，我也只好不喝酒。”
象个咬文嚼字的呆子似的，他还带着自负的神气补上一句：
“他们的饿是我的渴的敌人。”
灵车绕着一棵参天古柏，离开了大路，转进了小路，走上了泥地，进入丛莽。这说明立刻就要到达那坟地边上了。割风可以放慢自己的脚步，却不能拖住那灵车。幸而土是松的，被冬季的雨水浸湿了，阻滞着车轮，降低了进度。
他靠近那埋葬工人。
“有一种极好的阿尔让特伊小酒。”割风低声慢气地说。
“村老倌，”那人接着说，“我来当埋葬工人，那原是不该有的事。我父亲是会堂的传达。他原希望我搞文学。但是他碰到了倒霉的事。他在交易所里亏了本。我就只好放弃当作家的希望，不过我还是个摆摊子的写字先生。”
“那么您不是埋葬工人了？”割风紧接着说，赶忙抓住这一线希望，虽然很微渺。
“干这一行还是可以干那一行，我身兼二职。”
割风不懂后面那句话。
“来喝一杯。”他说。
有一点得注意一下，割风带着万分焦急的心情请人喝酒，却没有表示谁付账？从前，经常是割风请人喝酒，梅斯千爷爷付账。这次请人喝酒，起因当然是那个新埋葬工人所造成的新局面，并且是应当请的，可是那老园丁并不是没有打算，把人平日常说的“拉伯雷的那一刻钟”①始终按下不提。割风尽管着了慌，却丝毫没有付钱的打算。
①“拉伯雷的那一刻钟”，通常是指没钱付账的窘困时刻。拉伯雷要去巴黎，走到里昂，没有钱付旅费。他包了三个小包，上面分别注明：“给国王吃的毒药”、“给王后吃的毒药”、“给太子吃的毒药”，并把这三个包放在他住房的附近。侦缉队发现后，逮捕了拉伯雷，押送到巴黎，报告国王，国王弗朗索瓦一世大笑，立即释放了他。
那个埋葬工人，带着高傲的笑容，接着说：
“吃饭要紧。我继承了梅斯千爷爷的职业。一个人在几乎完成学业时，他就有一个哲学头脑。在手的工作以外，我又加上胳膊的工作。我在塞夫勒街市场上有个写字棚。您知道吗？在雨伞市场。红十字会所有的厨娘都来找我。我得替她们凑合一些表达情意的话，写给那些淘气鬼。我早上写情书，晚上挖坟坑。土包子，这就是生活。”
灵车直往前走。割风，慌乱到了无以复加，只朝四面乱望。
大颗大颗的汗水从他的额头上淌下来。
“可是，”那埋葬工人继续说，“一个人不能伺候两个婆婆。
我得选择一样，是笔还是镐。镐会弄坏我的手。”
灵车停住了。
唱诗童子从那装了布帷的车子里走出来。接着是那神甫。
灵车前面的一个小轮子已经滚上了土堆边，再过去，便是那敞着的坟坑了。
“这玩笑开得可不小！”割风无限沮丧，又说了这么一句。