Part 112 (1/2)
”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 to-night, 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. Fauchelevent'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 Fauchelevent'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, Fauchelevent 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 is 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 pa.s.sed 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 Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green. Green is the pallor of livid people.
”Ah! Jesus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-a-bas-la-lune!”[17] he exclaimed. ”Fifteen francs fine!”
”Three pieces of a hundred sous,” said Fauchelevent.