This is what had taken place above the coffin in which lay Jean Valjean. When the hearse had driven off, when the priest and the choir boy had taken their departure, Fauchelevent saw the grave-digger bend over and grasp his shovel. Then Fauchelevent took a supreme resolve. He placed himself between the grave and the grave-digger, crossed his arms, and said: I am the one to pay. For the wine. That Argenteuil wine. At the Bon Coing. Go to the devil, said the grave-digger, and flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin. The coffin gave back a hollow sound. Fauchelevent felt himself stagger and on the point of falling headlong into the grave himself. Comrade, before the Bon Coing is shut. I will pay. And he seized the man's arm. I am the convent grave-digger. It is a business which can be performed at night. Let us begin by going for a drink. And if he drinks, will he get drunk? After work, never before, said the man. It is Argenteuil wine, at six. You are a bell-ringer. Ding dong, that is all you know how to say. A second shovelful. Come along and drink, since it is I who pays the bill. When we have put the child to bed, said the grave-digger, and flung in a third. It is cold tonight, and the corpse would shriek out after us if we were to plant her there without a coverlet.
As he loaded his shovel, the grave-digger bent over, and the pocket of his waistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent's wild gaze fell mechanically into that pocket. Something white lay at the bottom. The sum total of lightning that the eye of a Picard peasant can contain traversed his pupils. He thrust his hand into the pocket from behind, without the grave-digger observing it, and pulled out the white object. A fourth shovelful tumbled into the grave. Just as the man turned for the fifth, Fauchelevent looked calmly at him. By the way, you new man, have you your card? The sun is on the point of setting. The gate of the cemetery will close immediately. The grave-digger fumbled in his pockets, his fobs, and returned to the second. Why, no, I have not my card. I must have forgotten it. Fifteen francs fine. The grave-digger turned green. Fauchelevent's turn had come. Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the grave and reach the gate. You have just time to get out by taking to your heels. Once outside, you gallop home, you get your card, you return. I'll watch it for you in the meantime, so that it shall not run away. I am indebted to you for my life, peasant. Decamp. The grave-digger, overwhelmed with gratitude, shook his hand and set off on a run.
When the man had disappeared, Fauchelevent leaned over the grave and said in a low tone: Father Madeleine. There was no reply. He tumbled rather than climbed into the grave, flung himself on the head of the coffin, and cried: Are you there? Silence. He pried up the lid with his cold chisel and his hammer. Jean Valjean's face appeared in the twilight, pale, his eyes closed. Fauchelevent's hair rose. He is dead. And this is the way I save his life. Then the poor man fell to sobbing. It is Father Mestienne's fault. What am I to do with his little girl? What will the fruit-seller say? The idea of its being possible for a man like that to die like this. When I think how he put himself under that cart. A grating sound in the trees: the cemetery gate closing. Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all at once he bounded back. Jean Valjean's eyes were open and gazing at him. To see a corpse is alarming, to behold a resurrection is almost as much so. I fell asleep, said Jean Valjean, and he raised himself to a sitting posture. Fauchelevent fell on his knees. How you frightened me. Thanks, Father Madeleine. Jean Valjean had merely fainted. The fresh air had revived him. I am cold. Fauchelevent pulled out a gourd. The flask finished what the fresh air had begun. They nailed the lid again, climbed out, and together buried the empty coffin. Night was falling. Jean Valjean had stiffened himself in that coffin, and had become a little like a corpse. He had, in a manner, to thaw out, from the tomb. Four paces will put life into my legs once more. At the closed gate Fauchelevent dropped the grave-digger's card into the box. The porter pulled the rope. How well everything is going. In the neighbourhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two passports. At No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard, Fauchelevent climbed to the garret, where a thin woman and a heap of children sat among the traces of a desperate search. He was in too great a hurry to notice that sad side of his success. I have brought you back your shovel and pick. Tomorrow morning you will find your card with the porter. I found it on the ground after you were gone. I have buried the corpse. You will not have to pay fifteen francs. Thanks, villager, exclaimed Gribier, radiant. The next time I will pay for the drinks.
