 Chapter 4 of Book 8 of Les Misérables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Gabriel Lambrick Les Misérables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood Book 8. Cemetery's Take That Which Is Committed Them Chapter 4. In which Jean Valjean has quite the air of having read Austen Castillejo. The strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed man. They do not reach their goal very promptly. Moreover, Fouche Levant was in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his cottage in the garden. Cousette had waked up. Jean Valjean had placed her near the fire. At the moment when Fouche Levant entered, Jean Valjean was pointing out to her the Vintness basket on the wall and saying to her, Listen attentively to me, my little Cousette. We must go away from this house, but we shall return to it and we shall be very happy here. A 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 above all things, unless you want Madame Thernadier to get you again. Cousette nodded gravely. Jean Valjean turned round at the noise made by Fouche Levant opening the door. Well, everything is arranged and nothing is said Fouche Levant. I have permission to bring you in, but before bringing you in you must be got out. That's where the difficulty lies. It is easy enough with the child. You will carry her out and she will hold her tongue. I answer for that. But you, Father Madeleine. After a silence fraught with anxiety, Fouche Levant exclaimed, Why? Get out as you came in. Jean Valjean, as in the first instance, contented himself with saying, Impossible. Fouche Levant grumbled more to himself than to Jean Valjean. There is another thing which bothers me. I've said that I would put earth in it. When I come to think it over, the earth instead of the corpse will not seem like the real thing it won't do. It will get displaced, it will move about. The men will bear it. You understand, Father Madeleine, the government will notice it. Jean Valjean stared him straight in the eye and thought that he was raving. Fouche Levant went on, How the deuce are you going to get out? It must all be done by tomorrow morning. The time to bring you in. The priors expect you. Then he explained to Jean Valjean that this was his recompense for a service which he, Fouche Levant, was to render to the community, that it fell among his duties to take part in their burials, that he nailed up the coffins and helped the grave digger at the cemetery, that the nun who had died that morning had requested to be buried in the coffin which had served her for a bed, and interred in the vault under the altar of the chapel, that the police regulations forbade this, but that she was one of those dead to whom nothing is refused, that the prioresse and the vocal mothers intended to fulfil the wish of the deceased, that it was so much the worse for the government, that he, Fouche Levant, was to nail up the coffin in the cell, raise the stone in the chapel and blow the corpse into the vault, and that, by way of thanks, the prioresse was to admit his brother to the house as a gardener and his niece as a pupil, that his brother was Monsieur Madeleine and that his niece was Cousette, that the prioresse had told him to bring his brother on the following evening after the counterfeit interment in the cemetery, but that he could not bring Monsieur Madeleine in from the outside if Monsieur Madeleine was not outside. That was the first problem, and then that there was another, the empty coffin. What is that empty coffin? asked Jean Valjean. Fouche Levant replied, the coffin of the administration. What coffin? What administration? A nun dies, the municipal doctor comes and says a nun has died. The government sends a coffin, the next day it sends a hearse and undertakers men to get the coffin and carry it to the cemetery. The undertakers men will come and lift the coffin, there will be nothing in it. Put something in it. There are corpse, I have none. No, a what then? A living person. What what person? Me, said Jean Valjean. Fouche Levant, who was seated, sprang up as though a bomb had burst under his chair. You? Why not? Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up his face like a flash from heaven in the winter. You know, Fouche Levant, what you have said, mother crucifixion is dead. And I add, and Father Madeleine is buried. Ah, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously. Very seriously, I must get out of this place. Certainly, I have told you to find a basket to cover for me also. Well, the basket will be of pine and the cover a black cloth. In the first place it will be a white cloth, nuns are buried in white. Let it be a white cloth then. You are not like other men, Father Madeleine. To behold such devices which are nothing else than the savage and daring inventions of the galleys spring forth from the peaceable things which surrounded him and mingle with what he called the petty course of life in the convent, caused Fouche Levant as much amazement as a gull fishing in the gutter of the rue Saint-Denis would inspire in a passer-by. Jean Valjean went on, the problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers the means, but give me some information in the first place. How is it managed? Where is this coffin? The empty one? Yes. It stands in what is called the dead room. It stands on two trestles under the pole. How long is the coffin? Six feet. What is this dead room? It is a chamber on the ground floor which has a grated window opening on the garden which is closed on the outside by a shutter, and two doors, one leads into the convent, the other into the church. What church? The church in the street, the church which anyone can enter. Have you the keys to those two doors? No, I have the key to the door which communicates with the convent. The porter has the key to the door which communicates with the church. When does the porter open that door? Only to allow the undertaker's men to enter when they come to get the coffin. When the coffin has been taken out, the door is closed again. Who nails up the coffin? I do. Who spreads the pole over it? I do. Are you alone? Not another man except the police doctor can enter the dead room. That is even written on the wall. Could you hide me in that room tonight when everyone is asleep? No, but I could hide you in a small dark nook which opens on the dead room where I keep my tools to use for burials and of which I have the key. At what time will the hearse come for the coffin tomorrow? About three o'clock in the afternoon. The burial will take place at the Wujihaya cemetery a little before nightfall. It is not very near. I will remain concealed in your tool-closet all night and all the morning. And how about food? I shall be hungry. I will bring you something. You can come and nail me up in the coffin at two o'clock. Froschlevor recoiled and cracked his finger joints. But that is impossible. Impossible to take a hammer and drive some nails in a plank. What seemed unprecedented to Froschlevor was, we repeat, a simple matter to Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had been in worse straits than this. Any man who has been a prisoner understands how to contract himself to fit the diameter of the escape. The prisoner is subject to flight as the sick man is subject to a crisis which saves or kills him. The escape is a cure. What does not a man undergo for the sake of a cure? To have himself nailed up in a case and carried off like a bale of goods to live for a long time in a box, to find air where there is none, to economize his breath for hours, to know how to stifle without dying? This was one of Jean Valjean's gloomy talents. Moreover, a coffin containing a living being that convicts expedient is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk Austen Castillejo, this was the means employed by Charles V, desirous of seeing the plomb for the last time after his abdication. He had her brought into and carried out of the monastery of Saïoust in this manner. Froschlevor, who had recovered himself a little, exclaimed, but how will you manage to breathe? I will breathe. In that box, the mere thought of it suffocates me. You surely must have a gimlet. You will make a few holes here and there around my mouth, and you will nail the top plancon loosely. Good. And what if you should happen to cough or to sneeze? A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze. And Jean Valjean added, Froschlevor, we must come to a decision. I must either be caught here or accept this escape through the hearse. Everyone has noticed the taste which cats have for pausing and lounging between the two leaves of a half-shut door. Who is there who has not said to a cat do come in? There are men who, when an incident stands half-open before them, have the same tendency to halt in indecision between two resolutions, at the risk of getting crushed by the closing of the adventure by fate. The overprudent cats as they are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more danger than the audacious. Froschlevor was of this hesitating nature, but Jean Valjean's coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He grumbled, well, since there is no other means, Jean Valjean resumed, the only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery. Oh, that is the very point that is not troublesome, exclaimed Froschlevor. If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave. The grave digger is a drunkard and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestien, an old fellow of the old school. The grave digger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the grave digger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, at three quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave. I shall follow. That is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse holds. The undertaker's men knot a rope around your coffin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water and takes his departure. I am left alone with Father Mestien. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will happen. He will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he is not drunk, I shall say to him a calm and drunk about, while the bon coin, the good quince, is open. I carry him off. I get him drunk. It does not take long to make Father Mestien drunk. He always has the beginning of it about him. I lay him under the table. I take his card, so that I can get into the cemetery again. And I return without him. Then you have no longer anyone but me to deal with. If he is drunk, I shall say to him be off. I will do your work for you. Off he goes, and I drag you out of the hole. Jean Valjean held out his hand and Fauches-Levant precipitated himself upon it, with the touching effusion of a peasant. That is settled, Father Fauches-Levant. All will go well. Provided nothing goes wrong, thought Fauches-Levant. In that case, it would be terrible. Name is a hub, volume 2 by Victor Hugo. Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood Book 8 Cemetery's take that which has committed them Chapter 5 It is not necessary to be drunk in order to be immortal. On the following day as the sun was declining the very rare passes by on the boulevard du min pulled off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse ornamented with skulls, crossbones 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 morning coach in which could be seen a priest in his surplus and a choir boy in his red cap followed. Two undertakers men in grey 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 labourer who limped along. The procession was going in the direction of the Vosgihar 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 Vosgihar 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 Pieton. The Bernadine Benedictine 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 normally 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 Cemetery closed at that epoch at sundown and this being a municipal regulation the Vosgihar 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 Pejoni and inhabited by the doorkeeper of the cemetery. These gates therefore swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalide. If any grave digger were delayed after that moment in the cemetery there was but one way for him to get out his grave diggers can't 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 15 francs. 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 Montparnasse called the Eastern Cemetery succeeded to it and inherited that famous drum shop next to the Vosjecha Cemetery which was surmounted by a quince painted on a board and which formed an angle one side on the drinker's tables and the other on the tombs with this sign or boncoin the Vosjecha 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 Vosjecha it hinted at poverty Péche-la-chers, if you please to be buried in Péche-la-chers is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany it is recognised as elegant the Vosjecha Cemetery was a venerable enclosure planted like an old-fashioned French garden straight alleys, walks thunia 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 pole and the black cross entered the avenue of the Vosjecha Cemetery the lame man who followed it was no other than Fourche-Levaux the interment of mother crucifixion in the vault under the altar the exit of Cozette the introduction of Jean Valjean into 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 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 principal Fourche-Levaux 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 Monsieur Madeleine had succeeded to all appearance Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful tranquilities which are contagious Fourche-Levaux 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 Mestien a chubby cheeked person drunk at least ten times he played with Father Mestien he did what he liked with him he made him dance according to his whim Mestien's head adjusted itself to the cap of Fourche-Levaux's will Fourche-Levaux's confidence was perfect at the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the cemetery Fourche-Levaux glanced cheerfully at the hearse and said half aloud as he rubbed his big hands here is a fine farce all at once the hearse halted it had reached the gate the permission for internment must be exhibited this 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 someone, a stranger came and placed himself behind the hearse beside Fourche-Levaux he was a sort of labouring man who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and carried a mattock under his arm Fourche-Levaux surveyed this stranger who are you he demanded the man replied the gravedigger if a man could survive the blow of a cannonball full in the breast he would make the same face that Fourche-Levaux made the gravedigger yes you I Father Miss Chien is the gravedigger he was what? he was and Fourche-Levaux had expected anything but this that a gravedigger could die it is true nevertheless that gravediggers do die themselves by dint of excavating graves for other people one hollows out one's own Fourche-Levaux did 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 Miss Chien is the gravedigger after Napoleon Louis the 18th after Miss Chien Gribier present my name is Gribier Fourche-Levaux who was deadly pale stared at this Gribier he was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man he had the air an unsuccessful doctor who had turned gravedigger Fourche-Levaux burst out laughing ah said he what great things do happen Father Miss Chien is dead but long live little father Linoire do you know who little father Linoire is he is a jug of red wine it is a jug of Sûren morbi-gû of real Paris Sûren ah so Father Miss Chien is dead I'm sorry for it he was a jolly fellow but you are a jolly fellow too are you not comrade we'll go and have a drink together presently the man replied I have been a student I passed my fourth examination I never drink the hearse had set out again and was rolling up the grand alley of the cemetery Fourche-Levaux had slackened his pace he limped more out of anxiety than from infirmity the gravedigger walked on in front of him Fourche-Levaux passed the unexpected Clébier once more in review he was one of those men who though very young have the air of age and who though slender are extremely strong comrade cried Fourche-Levaux the man turned round the convent gravedigger my colleague said the man Fourche-Levaux who was illiterate but very sharp understood that he had to deal with a formidable species of man with a fine talker he muttered Father Miss Chien is dead the man replied completely the good god consulted his notebook which shows when the time is up Father Miss Chien's turn Father Miss Chien died Fourche-Levaux repeated mechanically the good god said the man authoritatively according to the philosophers the eternal father according to the Jacobins the supreme being shall we not make each other's acquaintance stammered Fourche-Levaux it is made I am a poor asian oh people do not know each other until they have drunk together he who empties his glass empties his heart he must come and have a drink with me such a thing cannot be refused business first Fourche-Levaux thought I am lost there were only a few turns of the wheel distant from the small alley leading to the nun's corner the gravedigger resumed peasant I have seven small children who must be fed as they must eat I cannot drink and he added with the satisfaction of a serious man who is turning a phrase well their hunger is the enemy of my thirst the hearst skirted a clump of cypress trees quitted the grand alley turned into a narrow one entered the wasteland and plunged into a thicket this indicated the immediate proximity of the place of Sepulter Fourche-Levaux slackened his pace but he could not detain the hearse fortunately the soil which was light and wet with the winter rains clogged the wheels and retarded its speed he approached the gravedigger they have such a nice little asian toy wine murmured Fourche-Levaux villager retorted the man I ought not be a gravedigger my father was a porter at the pritoneum town hall he destined me for literature but he had reverses he had losses unchanged I was obliged to renounce the profession of author but I am still a public writer so you are not a gravedigger then returned Fourche-Levaux clutching at this branch feeble as it was the one does not hinder the other I accumulate Fourche-Levaux did not understand this last word come have a drink said he here a remark becomes necessary a Fourche-Levaux whatever his anguish offered a drink but he did not explain himself on one point who was to pay generally Fourche-Levaux offered and Father Mestien paid an offer of a drink was the evident result of the novel situation created by the new gravedigger and it was necessary to make this offer but the old gardener left the proverbial quarter of an hour named after Rabelais in the dark and that not unintentionally as for himself Fourche-Levaux did not wish to pay troubled as he was the gravedigger went on with a superior smile one must eat I have accepted Father Mestien's reversion one gets to be a philosopher and has nearly completed his classes to the labour of the hand I join the labour of the arm I have my scriveness store in the market of the Rue de Sevres you know the umbrella market all the cooks of the Red Cross apply to me I scribble their declarations of love to the raw soldiers in the morning I write love letters in the evening I dig graves such is life rustic the hearse was still advancing Fourche-Levaux, uneasy to the last degree was gazing about him on all sides great drops of perspiration trickled down from his brow but continued the gravedigger 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 morning 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 Fourche-Levaux in consternation End of Book 8, Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Book 8 of Les Misérables, Volume 2 by Victor Hugo this is a Librivox recording all Librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Recording by Ruth Golding Les Misérables, Volume 2 by Victor Hugo translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood Book 8 Cemetery's Take That which is committed them Chapter 6, Between Four Planks Who was in the coffin? The reader knows Jean Valjean Jean Valjean had arranged things so that he could exist there and he could almost breeze It is a strange thing to what a degree security of conscience confers security of the rest Every combination thought out by Jean Valjean had been progressing and progressing favourably since the preceding day He, like Fauchelevant counted on Father Mestien He had no doubt as to the end Never was there a more critical situation Never more complete composure The four planks of the coffin breathe out a kind of terrible peace It seemed as though something of the repose of the dead entered into Jean Valjean's tranquilis It seemed as though something of the repose had entered into Jean Valjean's tranquillity From the depths of that coffin he had been able to follow and he had followed all the phases of the terrible drama which he was playing with death Shortly after Fauchelevant had finished nailing on the upper plank Jean Valjean had felt himself carried out, then driven off He knew from the diminution in the jolting when they left the pavements and reached the earth road he had divined from a dull noise that they were crossing the bridge of Osterlitz At the first halt he had understood that they were entering the cemetery At the second halt he said to himself Here is the grave Suddenly he felt hand seize the coffin then a harsh grating against the planks He explained it to himself as the rope which was being fastened round the casket in order to lower it into the cavity Then he experienced a giddiness The undertaker's man and the grave-digger had probably allowed the coffin to lose its balance and had lowered the head before the foot He recovered himself fully when he felt himself horizontal and motionless He had just touched the bottom He had a certain sense He had a certain sensation of cold A voice rose above him glacial and solemn He heard Latin words which he did not understand pass over him so slowly that he was able to catch them one by one Qui dormion Tintere pulvere e vigilabont Alli invita metternam et alli inaprobrium ut videant semper A child's voice said Dei profundis The grave voice began again Requi emetternam Dona ehi domine The child's voice responded Et lux perpetua luceat ehi He heard something like the gentle patter of several words Something like the gentle patter of several drops of rain on the plank which covered him It was probably the holy water He thought This will be over soon now Patience for a little while longer The priest will take his departure Fochelavon will take Miss Yen off to drink I shall be left Then Fochelavon will return alone and I shall get out The grave voice resumed Requi escartin parche And the child's voice said Amen Jean Valjean strained his ears and heard something like retreating footsteps There they are going now Thought he I am alone All at once he heard over his head It seemed to him to be a clap of thunder It was a shovelful of earth falling on the coffin A second shovelful fell One of the holes through which he breathed had just been stopped up A third shovelful of earth fell Then a fourth There are things which are too strong for the strongest man Jean Valjean lost consciousness End of Book 8, Chapter 6 Recording by Ruth Golding Chapter 7, of Book 8 of Les Miserables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ruth Golding Les Miserables Vol. 2 by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood Book 8 Cemetery's take that which has committed them Chapter 7 in which will be found the origin of the saying Don't lose the card This is what had taken place above the coffin in which Les Jean Valjean When the hearse had driven off When the priest and the choir-boy had entered the carriage again and taken their departure Fochelavon, who had not taken his eyes from the grave-digger saw the latter bend over and grasp his shuffle which was sticking upright in the heap of dirt Then Fochelavon 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 The grave-digger stared at him in amazement and replied What's that, peasant? Fochelavon repeated I am the one who pays What? For the wine What wine? That argenté wine Where is the argenté? At the bon coin Go to the devil, said the grave-digger and he flung a shovel full of earth on the coffin The coffin gave back a hollow sound Fochelavon felt himself staggered and on the point of falling headlong into the grave himself He shouted in a voice in which the strangling sound of the death-rattle began to mingle Comrade, before the bon coin is shut the grave-digger took some more earth on his shovel Fochelavon continued I will pay and he seized the man's arm Listen to me, comrade I am the convent grave-digger I have come to help you It is a business which can be performed at night Let us begin then by going for a drink And as he spoke and clung to this desperate insistence this melancholy reflection occurred to him And if he drinks will he get drunk? Provincial, said the man If you positively insist upon it I consent We will drink after work never before And he flourished his shovel briskly Fochelavon held him back It is argenté wine at six Oh, come! said the grave-digger You are a bell-ringer Ding dong, ding dong That's all you know how to say Go hang yourself And he threw in a second shovelful Fochelavon had reached a point where he no longer knew what he was saying Come along and drink He cried, since it is I who pays the bill When we have put the child to bed Said the grave-digger He flung in a third shovelful Then he thrust his shovel into the earth and added It's cold tonight, you see And the corpse would shriek out after us If we were to plant her there without a coverlet At that moment, as he loaded his shovel The grave-digger bent over And the pocket of his waistcoat gaped Fochelavon's wild gaze fell mechanically into that pocket And there it stopped The sun was not yet hidden behind the horizon There was still light enough to enable him to distinguish Something white at the bottom of that yawning pocket The sum total of lightning that the eye of a Picard peasant Can contain traversed Fochelavon's pupils An idea had just occurred to him He thrust his hand into the pocket from behind Without the grave-digger, who was wholly absorbed In his shovelful of earth, observing it And pulled out the white object which lay at the bottom of it The man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling into the grave Just as he turned round to get the fifth Fochelavon looked calmly at him and said By the way, you new man, have you your card? The grave-digger paused What card? The sun is on the point of setting That's good, it's going to put on its nightcap The gate of the cemetery will close immediately Well, what then? Have you your card? Ah, my card! said the grave-digger And he fumbled in his pocket Having searched one pocket, he proceeded to search the other He passed on to his fobs, explored the first Returned to the second Why, no, said he I have not my card, I must have forgotten it Fifteen francs fine, said Fochelavon The grave-digger turned green Green is the pallor of livid people Ah, j'ai zi mon dieu, bancoche a balalune! He exclaimed Fifteen francs fine! Three pieces of a hundred soup, said Fochelavon The grave-digger dropped his shovel Fochelavon's turn had come Ah, come now, conscript! said Fochelavon None of this despair There is no question of committing suicide And benefiting the grave Fifteen francs is fifteen francs And besides, you may not be able to pay it I am an old hand, you are a new one I know all the ropes and the devices I will give you some friendly advice One thing is clear The sun is on the point of setting It is touching the dome now The cemetery will be closed in five minutes more That is true! replied the man Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the grave It is as hollow as the devil this grave And to reach the gate in season to pass it before it is shut That is true! In that case a fine of fifteen francs Fifteen francs! But you have time, where do you live? A couple of steps from the barrier A quarter of an hour from here Number eighty-seven You have just time to get out by taking to your heels at your best speed That is exactly so Once outside the gate you gallop home You get your card, you return The cemetery porter admits you As you have your card there will be nothing to pay And you will bury your corpse 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! said Fochelavon The grave digger overwhelmed with gratitude Shook his hand and set off on a run When the man had disappeared in the thicket Fochelavon listened until he heard his footsteps Die away in the distance Then he leaned over the grave And said in a low tone Father Madeleine! There was no reply Fochelavon was seized with a shudder He tumbled rather than climbed into the grave Flung himself on the head of the coffin and cried Are you there? Silence in the coffin Fochelavon, hardly able to draw his breath for trembling Seized his cold chisel and his hammer And pried up the coffin lid Jean Valjean's face appeared in the twilight It was pale and his eyes were closed Fochelavon's hair rose upright on his head He sprang to his feet Then fell back against the side of the grave Ready to swoon on the coffin He stared at Jean Valjean Jean Valjean lay there Pallid and motionless Fochelavon murmured in a voice as faint as a sigh He is dead And drawing himself up And folding his arms with such violence That his clenched fists came in contact with his shoulders He cried And this is the way I save his life Then the poor man fell to sobbing He soliloquized the while For it is an error to suppose That the soliloquy is unnatural Powerful emotion often talks aloud It is Father Mestien's fault Why did that fool die? What need was there for him to give up the ghost At the very moment when no one was expecting it? It is he who has killed Monsieur Madeleine Father Madeleine, he is in the coffin It is quite handy, all is over No, is there any sense in these things? Oh my God, he is dead Well, and his little girl What am I to do with her? What will the fruit seller say? The idea of it being possible For a man like that to die like this When I think how he put himself under that cart Father Madeleine, Father Madeleine Pardine, he was suffocated I said so, he wouldn't believe me Well, he is a pretty trick to play He is dead, that good man The very best man out of all the good God's good folks And his little girl Ah, in the first place I won't go back there myself I shall stay here After having done such a thing as that What's the use of being two old men If we are two old fools? But in the first place How did he manage to enter the convent? That was the beginning of it all One should not do such things Father Madeleine, Father Madeleine Father Madeleine, Madeleine Monsieur Madeleine, Monsieur Le Maire He does not hear me Now get out of this scrape if you can And he tore his hair A grating sound became audible Through the trees in the distance It was the cemetery gate closing Fauches le ventes over Jean Valjean And all at once he bounded back And recoiled so far as the limits of a grave permit 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 Fauches le ventes became like stone Pale, haggard, overwhelmed By all these excesses of emotion Not knowing whether he had to do with a living man Or a dead one And staring at Jean Valjean Who was gazing at him I fell asleep, said Jean Valjean And he raised himself to a sitting posture Fauches le ventes fell on his knees Just good virgin how you frightened me Then he sprang to his feet and cried Thanks, Father Madeleine Jean Valjean had merely fainted The fresh air had revived him Joy is the ebb of terror Fauches le ventes found almost as much difficulty In recovering himself as Jean Valjean had So you are not dead Oh, how wise you are I called you so much that you came back When I saw your eyes shut I said, good, there he is, stifled I should have gone raving mad Mad enough for a straight jacket They would have put me in bissettres What do you suppose I should have done If you had been dead? And your little girl There's that fruit-seller She would never have understood it The child is thrust into your arms And then the grandfather is dead What a story! Good saints of paradise, what a tale Oh, you are alive, that's the best of it I am cold, said Jean Valjean This remark recalled Fauches le vent thoroughly to reality And there was pressing need of it The souls of these two men were troubled Even when they had recovered themselves Although they did not realise it And there was about them something uncanny Which was the sinister bewilderment Inspired by the place Let us get out of here quickly Exclaimed Fauches le vent He fumbled in his pocket And pulled out a good with which he had provided himself But first take a drop, said he The flask finished what the fresh air had begun Jean Valjean swallowed a mouthful of brandy And regained full possession of his faculties He got out of the coffin And helped Fauches le vent to nail on the lid again Three minutes later they were out of the grave Moreover, Fauches le vent was perfectly composed He took his time The cemetery was closed The arrival of the grave-digger Grébier Was not to be apprehended That conscript was at home Bizzily engaged in looking for his card And at some difficulty in finding it in his lodgings Since it was in Fauches le vent's pocket Without a card He could not get back into the cemetery Fauches le vent took the shovel And Jean Valjean the pickaxe And together they buried the empty coffin When the grave was full Fauches le vent said to Jean Valjean Let us go I will keep the shovel Do you carry off the mattock? Night was falling Jean Valjean experienced some difficulty In moving and in walking He had stiffened himself in that coffin And had become a little like a corpse The rigidity of death had seized upon him Between those four planks He had, in a manner, to thaw out from the tomb You are benumbed, said Fauches le vent It is a pity that I have a game leg For otherwise we might step out briskly Bah! replied Jean Valjean Four paces will put life into my legs once more They set off by the alley through which the hearse had passed On arriving before the closed gate and the porter's pavilion Fauches le vent, who held the grave digger's card in his hand Dropped it into the box The porter pulled the rope The gate opened and they went out How well everything is going, said Fauches le vent What a capital idea that was of yours, Father Madeleine They passed the Vosgira barrier in the simplest manner in the world In the neighbourhood of the cemetery a shovel and pick are equal to two passports The rule Vosgira was deserted Father Madeleine, said Fauches le vent As they went along and raising his eyes to the houses Your eyes are better than mine Show me number eighty-seven Here it is, said Jean Valjean There is no one in the street, said Fauches le vent Give me your mattock and wait a couple of minutes for me Fauches le vent entered number eighty-seven Ascended to the very top Guided by the instinct which always leads the poor man to the garret And knocked in the dark at the door of an attic A voice replied, come in It was Grébier's voice Fauches le vent opened the door The grave digger's dwelling was, like all such wretched habitations An unfurnished and encumbered garret A packing case, a coffin perhaps Took the place of a commode A butter-pot served for a drinking fountain A straw mattress served for a bed The floor served instead of tables and chairs In a corner on a tattered fragment Which had been a piece of an old carpet A thin woman and a number of children were piled in a heap The whole of this poverty-stricken interior Bored traces of having been overturned One would have said that there had been an earthquake for one The covers were displaced, the rags scattered about, the jug broken The mother had been crying, the children had probably been beaten Traces of a vigorous and ill-tempered search It was plain that the grave digger had made a desperate search for his card And had made everybody in the garret from the jug to his wife Responsible for its loss He wore an air of desperation But Fouches-le-Van was in too great a hurry to terminate this adventure To take any notice of this sad side of his success He entered and said, I have brought you back your shovel and pick Grebier gazed at him in stupifaction Is it you, peasant? And tomorrow morning you will find your card with the porter of the cemetery And he laid the shovel and mattock on the floor What is the meaning of this? Demanded Grebier The meaning of it is that you dropped your card out of your pocket That I found it on the ground after you were gone That I have buried the corpse, that I have filled the grave That I have done your work That the porter will return your card to you And that you will not have to pay fifteen francs There you have it, con script Thanks, villager! Exclaimed Grebier radiant The next time I will pay for the drinks Chapter 8 A Successful Interrogatory An hour later, in the darkness of night, two men and a child presented themselves At number 62 Rue Pédé-Pique-Basse The elder of the men lifted the knocker and rapped They were Fauchelle-Avant, Jean-Varjean, and Cazette The two old men had gone to fetch Cazette from the frituriers In the rue de Chemin-Verte Where Fauchelle-Avant had deposited her on the preceding day Cazette had passed these twenty-four hours trembling slightly And understanding nothing She trembled to such a degree that she wept She had neither eaten nor slept The worthy fruit-seller had plied her with a hundred questions Without obtaining any other reply than a melancholy and unvarying gaze Cazette had betrayed nothing of what she had seen and heard During the last two days She divined that they were passing through a crisis She was deeply conscious that it was necessary to be good Who has not experienced the sovereign power of those two words Pronounced with a certain accent in the ear of a terrified little being Say nothing, fear is mute Moreover, no one guards a secret like a child But when, at the expiration of these legubrious twenty-four hours She beheld Jean-Varjean again She gave vent to such a cry of joy That any thoughtful person who had chance to hear that cry Would have guessed that it issued from an abyss For Chelevant belonged to the convent and knew the passwords All the doors opened Thus was solved the double and alarming problem Of how to get out and how to get in The porter, who had received his instructions Opened the little servant's door Which connected the courtyard with the garden And which could still be seen from the street twenty years ago In the wall at the bottom of the court Which faced the carriage entrance The porter admitted all three of them through this door And from that point they reached the inner, reserved parlor Where for Chelevant, on the preceding day Had received his orders from the prioris The prioris, rosary in hand, was waiting for them A vocal mother, with her veil lowered, stood beside her A discreet candle-lighted, one might almost say Made a show of lighting the parlor The prioris passed Jean-Varjean in review There is nothing which examines like a downcast eye Then she questioned him You are the brother? Yes, Reverend Mother, replied for Chelevant What is your name? For Chelevant replied, Old team, for Chelevant He really had had a brother named Old team, who was dead Where do you come from? For Chelevant replied, From Piquigny, near Amiens What is your age? For Chelevant replied, fifty What is your profession? For Chelevant replied, Gardener Are you a good Christian? For Chelevant replied, Everyone is, in the family Is this your little girl? For Chelevant replied, yes, Reverend Mother You are her father? For Chelevant replied, her grandfather The vocal mother said to the prioris in a low voice He answers well Jean-Varjean had not uttered a single word The prioris looked attentively at Cosette And said half aloud to the vocal mother She will grow up ugly The two mothers consulted for a few moments in very low tones In the corner of the parlor Then the prioris turned around and said Father Fauvant, you will get another kneecap with a bell Two will be required now And the following day therefore two bells were audible in the garden And the nuns could not resist the temptation To raise the corner of their veils At the extreme end of the garden under the trees Two men, Fauvant and another man Were visible as they dug side by side An enormous event Their silence was broken to the extent of saying to each other He is an assistant Gardener The vocal mother added He is a brother of Father Fauvant Jean-Varjean was, in fact, regularly installed He had his belled kneecap, therefore he was official His name was Old Team Fauchelevant The most powerful determining cause of his admission Had been the prioris' observation upon Cosette She will grow up ugly The prioris, that pronounced prognosticator Immediately took a fancy to Cosette And gave her a place in the school as a charity pupil There is nothing that is not strictly logical about this It is in vain that mirrors are banished from the convent Women are conscious of their faces Now girls who are conscious of their beauty Do not easily become nuns The vocation being voluntary In inverse proportion to their good looks More is to be hoped from the ugly Than from the pretty Hence a lively taste for plain girls The whole of this adventure increased the importance Of good old Fauchelevant He won a triple success In the eyes of Jean-Varjean Whom he had saved and sheltered In those of Grave-Digger-Gribier Who said to himself, He spared me that fine With the convent, which being enabled Thanks to him to retain the coffin Of Mother Crucifixion under the altar Alluded Caesar and satisfied God There was a coffin containing a body In the Pétit Pépus And a coffin without a body In the Vos Gerard Cemetery Public order had no doubt Been deeply disturbed thereby But no one was aware of it As for the convent Its gratitude to Fauchelevant Was very great Fauchelevant became the best of servitors And the most precious of gardeners Upon the occasion of the Archbishop's next visit The priors recounted the affair to his grace Making something of a confession At the same time and yet boasting of her deed On leaving the convent The Archbishop mentioned it with approval And in a whisper to Monsieur de la Thile Monsieur's confessor Afterwards Archbishop of Reim and Cardinal This admiration for Fauchelevant Became widespread for it made its way to Rome We have seen a note addressed by the then reigning Pope Leo XII to one of his relatives A Monsignor in the Nuncio's establishment In Paris and bearing like himself The name of de la Ginga It contained these lines It appears that there is in a convent in Paris An excellent gardener who is also a holy man Named Fauvant Nothing of this triumph reached Fauchelevant in his hut He went on grafting, weeding, and covering up His melon beds without in the least suspecting His excellences and his sanctity Neither did he suspect his glory Any more than a Durham or Surrey Bull Whose portrait is published in the London Illustrated News With this inscription, Bull Which carried off the prize at the cattle show End of Book 8, Chapter 8 Read by Linda McDaniel Atlanta, Georgia December 2008 Chapter 9 of Book 8 Of Les Miserables Vol. 2 By Victor Hugo This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ruth Golding Les Miserables Vol. 2 By Victor Hugo Translated by Isabelle Florence Hapgood Book 8 Cemetery's take that which is committed them Chapter 9, Cloistered Cozzette continued to hold her tongue in the convent It was quite natural that Cozzette should think herself Jean Valjean's daughter Moreover, as she knew nothing she could say nothing And then she would not have said anything in any case As we have just observed nothing trains children to silence Like unhappiness Cozzette had suffered so much that she feared everything Even to speak or to breathe A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her She had hardly begun to regain her confidence Since she had been with Jean Valjean She speedily became accustomed to the convent Only she regretted Catherine But she dared not say so Once, however, she did say to Jean Valjean Father, if I had known I would have brought her away with me Cozzette had been obliged on becoming a scholar in the convent To don the garb of the pupils of the house Jean Valjean succeeded in getting them to restore to him The garments which she laid aside This was the same morning suit which she had made her proton When she had quitted the tenardiers in It was not very threadbare even now Jean Valjean locked up these garments Plus the stockings and the shoes With a quantity of camphor and all the aromatics In which convents abound In a little valise which he found means of procuring He set this valise on a chair near his bed And he always carried the key about his person Father, Cozzette asked him one day What is there in that box which smells so good? Father, Fourchelivant received other recompense for his good action In addition to the glory which we just mentioned And of which he knew nothing In the first place it made him happy Next he had much less work since it was shared Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff He found the presence of Monsieur Madeleine an advantage In that he used three times as much as he had done previously And that in an infinitely more luxurious manner Seeing that Monsieur Madeleine paid for it The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime They called Jean Valjean the other fauvant If these holy women had possessed anything of javers glance They would eventually have noticed that when there was any errand To be done outside in the behalf of the garden It was always the elder Fourchelivant who called the infirm the lame man who went And never the other But whether it is that eyes constantly fixed on God Know not how to spy Or whether they were by preference Occupied in keeping watch on each other They paid no heed to this Moreover it was well for Jean Valjean That he kept close and did not stir out To watch the quarter for more than a month This convent was for Jean Valjean Like an island surrounded by gulfs Henceforth those four walls constituted his world He saw enough of the sky there To enable him to preserve his serenity And cosette enough to remain happy A very sweet life began for him He inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden In company with Fourchelivant This hovel built of old rubbish Which was still in existence in 1845 Was composed, as the reader already knows Of three chambers All of which were utterly bare And had nothing beyond the walls The principal one had been given up By force, for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vain To M. Madeleine by Fr. Fauchelivant The walls of this chamber had for ornament In addition to the two nails Whereon to hang the kneecap and the basket A royalist bank note of ninety-three Applied to the wall over the chimney-piece And of which the following is an exact facsimile Armée calbolique et royale De par le roi Bon commercial de dix livres Pour objets fornés à l'armée Remboursable à la paix Série 3, numéro dix-mille-trois-cent-quatre-vingt-dix Stofflet This specimen of Vendien paper-money Had been nailed to the wall By the preceding gardener An old chouin who had died in the convent And whose place Fourchelivant had taken Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day And made himself very useful He had formerly been a pruner of trees And he gladly found himself for gardener once more It will be remembered That he knew all sorts of secrets And receipts for agriculture He turned these to advantage Almost all the trees in the orchard Were ungrafted and wild He budded them And made them produce excellent fruit Cosette had permission To pass an hour with him every day As the sisters were melancholy And he was kind The child made comparisons And adored him At the appointed hour She flew to the hut When she entered the lowly cabin She filled it with paradise Jean Valjean blossomed out And felt his happiness increase With the happiness which he afforded Cosette The joy which we inspire Has this charming property That far from growing meagre Like all reflections It returns to us more radiant than ever At recreation hours Jean Valjean watched her running And playing in the distance And he distinguished her laugh From that of the rest For Cosette laughed now Cosette's face had even undergone A change to a certain extent The gloom had disappeared from it A smile is the same as sunshine It banishes winter from the human countenance Recreation over When Cosette went into the house again Jean Valjean gazed at the windows Of her classroom And at night he rose to look At the windows of her dormitory God has his own ways, moreover The convent contributed like Cosette To uphold and complete the bishop's work In Jean Valjean It is certain that Virtua joins pride On one side, a bridge built by the devil Exists there. Jean Valjean had been unconsciously Perhaps tolerably near that side And that bridge When Providence cast his lot In the convent of the Petitpique Boos So long as he had compared himself Only to the bishop He had regarded himself as unworthy And had remained humble. But for some time past He had been comparing himself to men In general, and pride was beginning To spring up. Who knows? He might have ended by returning Very gradually to hatred The convent stopped him on that downward path. This was the second place Of captivity which he had seen In his youths, in what had been For him the beginning of his life And later on, quite recently again He had beheld another A frightful place, a terrible place Whose severities had always appeared to him And the iniquity of justice And the crime of the law. Now, after the galleys He saw the cloister And when he meditated how he had Formed a part of the galleys And that he now, so to speak, Was a spectator of the cloister He confronted the two In his own mind with anxiety. Sometimes he crossed his arms And leaned on his hoe And slowly descended the endless Spirals of reverie. He recalled his former companions How wretched they were. They rose at dawn and toiled until night Hardly were they permitted to sleep. They lay on camp beds Where nothing was tolerated But mattresses two inches thick In rooms which were heated Only in the very harshest months Of the year. They lived in frightful red blouses. They were allowed as a great favour Linnin trousers in the hottest weather And a woollen Carter's blouse on their backs When it was very cold. They drank no wine and ate no meat Except when they went on fatigue duty. They lived nameless, designated only by numbers And converted after a manner Into ciphers themselves With downcast eyes With lowered voices With shorn heads Beneath the cudgel and in disgrace. Then his mind reverted To the beings whom he had under his eyes. These beings also lived with shorn heads With downcast eyes With lowered voices Not in disgrace But amid the scoffs of the world Not with their backs bruised with the cudgel But with their shoulders lacerated With their discipline. Their names also had vanished From among men. They no longer existed except Under austere appellations. They never ate meat And they never drank wine. They often remained until evening Without food. They were attired not in a red blouse But in a black shroud of woollen Which was heavy in summer And thin in winter Without the power to add or subtract Anything from it. Without having even, according to the season, The resource of the linen garment Or the woollen cloak. And for six months in the year They wore surged chemises Which gave them fever. They dwelt not in rooms Warmed only during rigorous cold But in cells where no fire was ever lighted. They slept, not on mattresses Two inches thick, but on straw. And finally They were not even allowed their sleep. Every night, after a day of toil They were obliged in the weariness Of their first slumber At the moment when they were falling Sound asleep and beginning to get warm To rouse themselves, to rise And to go and pray in an ice-cold And gloomy chapel With their knees on the stones. On certain days Each of these beings in turn Had to remain for twelve successive hours In a kneeling posture Or prostrate with face upon the pavement And arms outstretched In the form of a cross. The others were men, These were women. What had those men done? They had stolen, violated, Pillaged, murdered, assassinated. They were bandits, counterfeiters, Poisonous, incendiaries, Murderers, parasites. What had these women done? They had done nothing whatever. On the one hand Highway robbery, fraud, deceit, Violence, sensuality, homicide, All sorts of sacrilege, Every variety of crime. On the other one thing only. Innocence. Perfect innocence Almost caught up into heaven In a mysterious assumption Attached to the earth by virtue Already possessing something of heaven Through holiness. On the one hand Confidences over crimes Which are exchanged in whispers. On the other The confession of faults made aloud. And what crimes And what faults. On the one hand Myasms. On the other An ineffable perfume. On the one hand A moral pest A sight penned up under the range of cannon And literally devouring its plague-stricken victims. On the other The chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth. There darkness. Here the shadow, But a shadow filled with gleams of light And of gleams full of radiance. Two strongholds of slavery In the first deliverance possible A legal limit always in sight And then escape. In the second perpetuity The sole hope At the distant extremity of the future That faint light of liberty Which men call death. In the first Men are bound only with chains In the other chained by faith. What flowed from the first An immense curse The gnashing of teeth, hatred, desperate viciousness A cry of rage against human society A sarcasm against heaven. What results flowed from the second? Blessings and love. And in these two places So similar yet so unlike These two species of beings Who were so very unlike Were undergoing the same work Expiation. Jean Valjean understood thoroughly The expiation of the former That personal expiation The expiation for oneself But he did not understand That of these last That of creatures without reproach And without stain And he trembled as he asked himself The expiation of what? What expiation? A voice within his conscience Replied the most divine Of human generosity's The expiation for others Here all personal theory is withheld We are only the narrator. We place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view And we translate his impressions. Before his eyes He had the sublime summit of abnegation The highest possible pitch of virtue The innocence which pardons men their faults And which expiates in their stead Servitude submitted to torture accepted Punishment claimed by souls Which have not sinned For the sake of sparing it To souls which have fallen The love of humanity swallowed up In the love of God But even there preserving its distinct And mediatorial character Sweet and feeble beings Possessing the misery of those who are punished And the smile of those who are recompensed And he remembered that he had dared to murmur Often in the middle of the night He rose to listen to the grateful song Of those innocent creatures Wade down with severities And the blood ran cold in his veins At the thought that those who were justly chastised Raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy And that he, wretched that he was Had shaken his fist at God There was one striking thing Which caused him to meditate deeply Like a warning whisper from Providence itself The scaling of that wall The passing of those barriers The adventure accepted even at the risk of death The painful and difficult ascent All those efforts even Which he had made to escape From that other place of expiation He had made in order to gain entrance into this one Was this a symbol of his destiny? This house was a prison likewise And bore a melancholy resemblance To that other one whence he had fled And yet he had never conceived The idea of anything similar Again he beheld gratings, boats, iron bars To guard whom? Angels These lofty walls which he had seen Around tigers he now beheld once more Around lambs This was a place of expiation And not of punishment It was still more austere, more gloomy And more pitiless than the other These virgins were even more heavily burdened Than the convicts A cold, harsh wind That wind which had chilled his youth Traversed the bard and padlocked Grating of the vultures A still harsher and more biting breeze Blew in the cage of these doves Why? When he thought on these things All that was within him Was lost in amazement Before this mystery of sublimity In these meditations his pride vanished He scrutinised his own heart In all manner of ways He felt his pettiness And many a time he wept All that had entered into his life For the last six months Had led him back towards the bishop's Holy injunctions Cozette through love The convent through humility Sometimes that eventide in the twilight At an hour when the garden was deserted He could be seen on his knees In the middle of the walk which Skirted the chapel in front of the window Through which he had gazed on the night of his arrival And turned towards the spot where, as he knew The sister was making reparation Prostrated in prayer Thus he prayed as he knelt before the sister It seemed as though he dared not Kneel directly before God Everything that surrounded him That peaceful garden, those fragrant flowers Those children who uttered joyous cries Those grave and simple women That silent cloister Slowly permeated him And little by little His soul became compounded of silence Like the cloister Of perfume like the flowers Of simplicity like the women Of joy like the children And then he reflected that these had been Two houses of God which had received him In succession at two critical moments In his life, the first when all doors Were closed and when human society Rejected him, the second at a moment When human society had again set out In pursuit of him and when the galleys Were again yawning, and that had It not been for the first He should have relapsed into crime And had it not been for the second Into torment His whole heart melted in gratitude And he loved more and more Many years passed in this manner Cosette was growing up End of book 8 chapter 9 And end of book 8 Recording by Ruth Golding End of Les Miserables Vol. 2 Cosette by Victor Hugo Translated by Isabel Florence Hapgood