Moreover, a coffin containing a living being,—that convict’s expedient,—is also an imperial expedient.
If we are to credit the monk Austin Castillejo, this was the means employed by Charles the Fifth, desirous of seeing the Plombes for the last time after his abdication. He had her brought into and carried out of the monastery of Saint-Yuste in this manner.
Fauchelevent, 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 plank on 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:— “Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be caught here, or accept this escape through the hearse.”
Every one 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 through the abrupt closing of the adventure by fate.
The over-prudent, cats as they are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more danger than the audacious.
Fauchelevent 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.”
“That is the very point that is not troublesome,” exclaimed Fauchelevent.
“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 Mestienne.
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, 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 halts, 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 Mestienne.
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:
‘Come and drink a bout while the Bon Coing [the Good Quince] is open.’
I carry him off, I get him drunk,—it does not take long to make Father Mestienne 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 any one 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 Fauchelevent precipitated himself upon it with the touching effusion of a peasant.
“That is settled, Father Fauchelevent.
All will go well.”
“Provided nothing goes wrong,” thought Fauchelevent.
“In that case, it would be terrible.”
CHAPTER V—IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO BE DRUNK IN ORDER TO BE IMMORTAL
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.