Chapter 144 5. Relying on drunkenness to ensure immortality is not enough

The next day, in the westerly sun, the few passers-by on the Main Highway took off their hats to a passing hearse, an old-fashioned one with skulls and femurs and tears painted on it.There was a coffin in the hearse, and a white cloth was covering the coffin, and a huge cross was spread out on the cloth, like a tall dead man, lying on his back with his arms hanging to the sides.A four-wheeled car with curtains followed, and passers-by could see a priest in a white cassock and a singing boy in a red melon cap sitting in the car.Two undertakers in gray uniforms with black ribbons and flowers walked to the left and right of the hearse.There is also a lame old man in work clothes behind.The funeral procession is heading towards the Vaugirard cemetery.

From the old man's pocket protruded the handle of a hammer, a blunt chisel, and the two handles of a nail pliers. Vaugirard Cemetery, unique among several Parisian cemeteries.It has its own peculiar habits, just as its large carriage doors and side doors are still called knight's door and pedestrian's door in the mouths of the old people in the neighborhood who have memorized the ancient words.We have already said that the Bernard-Benedictine nuns of Petit Piccubus were allowed to be buried in a small cut-off cemetery, and that they could be buried in the evening, since that place had formerly been belonged to their monastery.Burial workers, for this reason, who have to work in the cemetery in summer evenings and winter nights, have to observe a special discipline.When the cemeteries in Paris had to close their gates at sunset, that was a municipal regulation, and the Vaugirard cemetery, like other cemeteries, had to obey it.The Knight's Gate and the Pedestrian's Gate are two iron gates next to each other. There is a pavilion next to it, which was built by the architect Veronne, and the gatekeeper of the cemetery lived in it.The iron gates, therefore, must, without mercy, be shut when the sun goes down behind the dome of the Invalides.If there is a burial worker who cannot leave the cemetery by then, he has only one way to go out, and that is with his card, the burial worker work card issued by the funeral home administration department.On the window panel of the porter's room hung a box similar to a letter box.The burial worker dropped his card into the box, and the porter, hearing the sound of the card falling, pulled the string, and the pedestrian door opened.If the burial worker did not bring his card, he had to give his name, and the porter, who sometimes lay in bed and fell asleep, had to get up and go and recognize the burial worker before he took the card. Give the key to open the door; the burial worker can go out, but he must pay a fine of fifteen francs.

The cemetery, with its irregular rules, affected its administration.It was canceled shortly after 1830.The Mont Parnas Cemetery, also known as the East Cemetery, succeeded it and took over the famous public-business joint beverage shop in the Vaugirard Cemetery. The roof of the beverage shop has a papaya painted on a wooden board. At the corner, facing the guest seat on the one hand, and the tomb on the other, the signboard reads: "Good Papaya". The Vaugirard Cemetery can be described as a withered cemetery.It has fallen, it has been overrun by moss and abandoned by flowers.Rich families are not very happy to be buried in Vaugirard, lest they look shabby.Pere Lachaise Cemetery, congratulations!To be buried in Pere Lachaise is like having mahogany furniture.The place gave a luxurious impression.The Vaugirard Cemetery is an antique garden, and the trees are planted according to the ancient French garden pattern.There are straight paths lined with holly, arborvitae, and holly leaves on both sides, and the old graves are under the old pine trees, and the grass is very tall.It was a sad night.Some of the scenery is extremely gloomy.

The sun had not yet set when the hearse, covered with a white cloth and a black cross, entered the road at the Vaugirard cemetery.The lame old man walking behind the cart was Fauchelevent. The Sister Sister was buried in the cellar under the altar, Cosette was sent out of the gate, and Jean Valjean slipped into the mortuary, and all this went smoothly without any hindrance. Let us add by the way that the burial of the Holy Mother under the altar of the monastery seems to us to be quite insignificant.That kind of mistake doesn't seem to be contrary to the way of being a human being.The nuns did not feel flustered after this matter was settled, but they felt at ease.In the monastery, "government" in general meant only the interference of the authorities, which was always problematic.The first thing is the canon, as for the law, we will look at it slowly.People, make as many laws as you please, make as many as you can, but keep them all for your own use.Contribution to the Lord can never be anything but the remainder of the contribution to God.The prince is also worthless before reason.

Fauchelevent complacently followed the hearse step by step.His double secret, his twin tricks, the one with the nuns, the other with M. Madeleine, the one with the convent and the other against it, all came true. .Jean Valjean's composure was a composure of great contagion.Fauchelevent no longer doubted the success of the matter.Nothing left to do.In the past two years, he had drunk the burial worker, the loyal and honest Grandpa Mace, a good old man with a fat face, ten times.To Grandpa Mei Siqian, he has always treated him as something in his palm and manipulated him at will.He often imposes his will and whims on his head like a hat.Macechen's head always accommodated Fauchelevent's hat.Fauchelevent was confident of his absolute certainty.

When the procession turned into the main road leading to the cemetery, Fauchelevent, looking at the hearse with an itchy heart, rubbed his large hands and said softly: "It's a big joke!" Suddenly, the hearse stopped, and everyone had already reached the iron gate.A burial permit must be submitted for inspection.A man from the undertaker met with the porter of the cemetery.Negotiations always made everyone wait for two or three minutes. While they were negotiating, a man whom no one knew came up and stood beside Fauchelevent behind the hearse.He was a working man, wearing a smock with large pockets, and carrying a pick under his arm.

Fauchelevent looked at the stranger. "Who are you?" he asked. The man replied: "Bury workers." If a man had received a shell in the chest and survived, his face would have been exactly the same as Fauchelevent's face at that time. "Bury workers?" "right." "you?" "I." "The burial worker is Grandpa Mace." "Once upon a time it was." "What! Once upon a time?" "he died." Fauchelevent had expected everything, but he hadn't expected this, or the death of the burial worker.It is true, however, that burial workers also die.As man continues to dig graves for others, he gradually digs his own grave.

Fauchelevent opened his mouth and stood still.With great difficulty, he stammered and said: "This, this is not going to happen." "There is now." "But," he went on breathlessly again, "the burial worker is Grandpa Mace." "After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Metzchen, Gribier. My name is Gribier, a peasant." Fauchelevent looked pale and looked at Gribier. It was a thin, blue-faced, extremely cold man.He had the air of a doctor who has failed to practice medicine and changed his career to be a burial worker. Fauchelevent laughed aloud.

"Ha! What a strange thing! Grandpa Metz is dead. Grandpa Mace is dead, but long live Grandpa Lenoir! Do you know what Grandpa Lenoir is? That's a six-franc bottle of red wine on the counter It's from Suresnes, fine! Paris Suresnes! Ha! He's dead, old Metzchen! I'm so sorry, that's a happy man. You're a happy man, too. Right, buddy? Hold on a minute, let's have a drink." The man replied, "I went to school. I finished the fourth class. I never drink." The hearse moved again, advancing on the cemetery road. Fauchelevent slowed down, not so much from the trouble in his leg, but mostly from his anxiety.

The burial workers went ahead of him. Fauchelevent took another careful look at the sudden Gribier. It was one of those young looking old, shriveled and very stocky people. "Comrade!" cried Fauchelevent. The man turned his head. "I am the burial worker in the convent." "Old man," said the man. Although Fauchelevent was rough, he was also delicate, and he knew that he had met a difficult fellow, a man of good speech. He muttered: "Unexpectedly, Grandpa Mace died." The man replied: "It's all over. The merciful God turned over his life and death book. Grandpa Mace Qian's deadline is up. Grandpa Mace Qian died."

Fauchelevent repeated mechanically: "God merciful..." "Merciful God," said the man solemnly, "the Eternal Father, as the philosophers call it, and God, as the Jacobites call it." "Aren't we going to introduce each other?" asked Fauchelevent hesitantly. "It's already been introduced. You're a peasant and I'm a Parisian." "If you don't drink, you can't become a confidant. Toast is to love. You have to have a drink with me. This should not be refused." "Work first." "I'm lost," thought Fauchelevent. Only a few more turns of the wheel were needed to reach the path in the corner where the nuns were. The burial worker continued: "I've got seven little tricksters to feed. They've got to eat, and I've had to stay out of drink." Like a nerdy nerd, he added with a pompous air: "Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst." The hearse circled a towering ancient cypress, left the main road, turned into a small road, walked onto the muddy ground, and entered the jungle.This means that we will soon reach the edge of the cemetery.Fauchelevent could slow down his steps, but he could not hold back the hearse.Fortunately the soil was loose and soaked by winter rains, which retarded the wheels and slowed progress. He approached the burial worker. "There is a fine Argenteuil," said Fauchelevent in a low voice. "Village old man," the man went on, "I have come to be a burial worker, which is not what I should have done. My father is the minister of the synagogue. He hoped that I would pursue literature. But bad luck happened to him. He Lost money on the stock exchange. I had to give up hope of being a writer, but I was still a good writer." "Then you are not a burial worker?" went on Fauchelevent, hastening to seize on this glimmer of hope, however slight it was. "I can do this line of work or that line of work. I have two jobs." Fauchelevent did not understand the latter sentence. "Come and have a drink," he said. It should be noted that Fauchelevent offered drinks with extreme anxiety, but did not indicate who would pay the bill?In the past, Fauchelevent often invited people to drink, and Grandpa Mace the Thousand paid the bill.The reason for inviting people to drink this time is of course the new situation created by the new burial worker, and it should be invited, but it is not that the old gardener did not intend to keep the "Quarter of Rabelais" that people usually talk about. Press do not mention.Fauchelevent, in spite of his panic, had no intention of paying. The burial worker, with a haughty smile, went on: "Food matters. I have inherited the profession of Grandpa Mace. A man has a philosophical mind when he has almost finished his studies. To the work of the hands I add the work of the arms. There's a writing shed above. Did you know? In the Umbrella Market. All the cooks from the Red Cross come to me. I have to scrape together some words of affection for them to write to the rascals. I write love letters in the morning and dig graves in the evening. Pit. Dude, that's life." The hearse went straight ahead.Fauchelevent was so flustered that he couldn't get any further, he just looked around wildly.Big drops of sweat trickled down his forehead. "But," continued the burial worker, "one cannot serve two mothers-in-law. I must choose the pen or the pick. The pick will ruin my hands." The hearse stopped. The choir boy stepped out of the curtained cart.Then came the priest. A small wheel in front of the hearse had already rolled onto the side of the mound, and beyond that was the open grave. "That's a big joke!" Fauchelevent repeated in his infinite frustration.