The strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed man: they do not reach their goal very promptly. Fauchelevent was in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his cottage in the garden. Cosette had waked up. Jean Valjean had placed her near the fire. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, Jean Valjean was pointing out to her the vintner's basket on the wall. Listen attentively to me, my little Cosette. We must go away from this house, but we shall return to it, and we shall be very happy here. The good man who lives here is going to carry you off on his back in that. You will wait for me at a lady's house. I shall come to fetch you. Obey, and say nothing, unless you want Madame Thenardier to get you again. Cosette nodded gravely. Well? Everything is arranged, and nothing is, said Fauchelevent. I have permission to bring you in, but before bringing you in you must be got out. It is easy enough with the child. Why, get out as you came in. Impossible, said Jean Valjean. There is another thing which bothers me. I have said that I would put earth in it. The earth instead of the corpse will not seem like the real thing. It will get displaced. The government will notice it. Jean Valjean stared at him and thought that he was raving.
Fauchelevent explained the recompense. He nails coffins and helps the grave-digger. The nun who died that morning had asked to be buried in the coffin which had served her for a bed, under the altar. The police forbade this, but she was one of those dead to whom nothing is refused. By way of thanks, the prioress would admit his brother as a gardener and his niece as a pupil. His brother was Madeleine. His niece was Cosette. He could not bring Madeleine in from the outside if Madeleine was not outside. That was the first problem. Then there was another: the empty coffin. The coffin of the administration, said Fauchelevent. A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes. The government sends a box. Tomorrow the undertaker's men will lift it, and there will be nothing in it. Put something in it. A corpse? I have none. A living person. What person? Me, said Jean Valjean. Fauchelevent sprang up as though a bomb had burst under his chair. Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up his face like a flash from heaven in the winter. Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine is buried. You can laugh, you are not speaking seriously. Very seriously, I must get out of this place. The basket will be of pine, and the cover a cloth. In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nuns are buried in white. To behold such devices, which are nothing else than the savage and daring inventions of the galleys, spring forth from the peaceable things of the convent, caused Fauchelevent as much amazement as a gull fishing in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Denis. The empty box stands downstairs in the dead-room, on two trestles, under the pall. Six feet. A grated window on the garden. Two doors: one to the convent, to which Fauchelevent has the key; one to the church in the street, to which the porter has the key, opened only for the undertaker's men. No other man, except the police doctor, can enter the dead-room. Fauchelevent can hide him in a small dark nook where he keeps his burial tools. The hearse comes about three o'clock. You can come and nail me up at two o'clock. Fauchelevent recoiled and cracked his finger-joints. But that is impossible. Bah. Impossible to take a hammer and drive some nails in a plank? Any man who has been a prisoner understands how to contract himself to fit the diameter of the escape. To have himself nailed up in a case and carried off like a bale of goods, to find air where there is none, to know how to stifle without dying: this was one of Jean Valjean's gloomy talents. A coffin containing a living being is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk Austin Castillejo, Charles the Fifth used it at Saint-Yuste.
How will you manage to breathe? I will breathe. You will make a few holes around my mouth, and you will nail the top plank on loosely. What if you should happen to cough or to sneeze? A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze. Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be caught here, or accept this escape through the hearse. Fauchelevent was of a hesitating nature, a cat between two leaves of a half-shut door. Jean Valjean's coolness prevailed. Well, since there is no other means. The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery. That is the very point that is not troublesome, exclaimed Fauchelevent. The grave-digger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. I put the grave-digger in my pocket. If he is not drunk, I carry him off to the Bon Coing and take his card. If he is drunk, I tell him I will do his work, and I drag you out of the hole. Jean Valjean held out his hand, and Fauchelevent precipitated himself upon it with the touching effusion of a peasant. That is settled. All will go well. Provided nothing goes wrong, thought Fauchelevent. In that case, it would be terrible.
Coming Up in Chapter 142
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.
