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 mourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a choir boy in his red cap, followed.
Two undertaker’s men in gray 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 laborer, who limped along.
The procession was going in the direction of the Vaugirard cemetery.
The handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antenn? of a pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man’s pocket.
The Vaugirard 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 pietonne.16 The Bernardines-Benedictines 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 having formerly 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 cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this being a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard 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 Perronet, and inhabited by the door-keeper of the cemetery.
These gates, therefore, swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides.
If any grave-digger were delayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for him to get out—his grave-digger’s card 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 fifteen 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 Mont-Parnasse, called the Eastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop next to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was surmounted by a quince painted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the drinkers’ tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign: Au Bon Coing.
The Vaugirard 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 Vaugirard; it hinted at poverty.
Pere-Lachaise if you please! to be buried in Pere-Lachaise is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany.
It is recognized as elegant.
The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure, planted like an old-fashioned French garden.
Straight alleys, box, thuya-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 pall and the black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery.
The lame man who followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.
The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the exit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to 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, we shall see.
Make as many laws as you please, men; but keep them for yourselves.
The tribute to C?sar is never anything but the remnants of the tribute to God.
A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle.
Fauchelevent 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 M. Madeleine, had succeeded, to all appearance.
Jean Valjean’s composure was one of those powerful tranquillities which are contagious.
Fauchelevent 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 Mestienne, a chubby-cheeked person, drunk at least ten times.
He played with Father Mestienne.
He did what he liked with him.
He made him dance according to his whim.
Mestienne’s head adjusted itself to the cap of Fauchelevent’s will.