This is what had taken place above the coffin in which lay Jean Valjean.
When the hearse had driven off, when the priest and the choir boy had entered the carriage again and taken their departure, Fauchelevent, who had not taken his eyes from the grave-digger, saw the latter bend over and grasp his shovel, which was sticking upright in the heap of dirt.
Then Fauchelevent 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?"
Fauchelevent repeated:--
"I am the one who pays!"
"What?"
"For tw 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."
"Fifteeid the grave-digger.
And he flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin.
The coffin gave back a hollow sound. Fauchelevent felt himself stagger 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 Coing is shut!"
The grave-digger took some more earth on his shovel. Fauchelevent 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. Fauchelevent held him back.
"It is Argenteuil 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.
Fauchelevent 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 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 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 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!"
[17] Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg--down with the moon!
"Three pieces of a hundred sous," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger dropped his shovel.
Fauchelevent's turn had come.
"Ah, come now, conscript," said Fauchelevent, "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. No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard."
"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 Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger, overwhelmed with gratitude, shook his hand and set off on a run.
When the man had disappeared in the thicket, Fauchelevent 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.
Fauchelevent 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.
Fauchelevent, 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.
Fauchelevent'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.
Fauchelevent 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 Mestienne'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 M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine! He is in the coffin. It is quite handy. All is over. Now, is there any sense in these things? Ah! 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 its 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! Here's a of yours, Father Madeleine!"
They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest manner in the world. In the neighborhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two passports.
The Rue Vaugi?届?ing 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.
Fauchelevent bent 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. Fauchelevent 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.
Fauchelevent 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. Fauchelevent 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 strait jacket. They would have put me in Bicetre. 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! Ah! you are alive, that's the best of it!"
"I am cold," said Jean Valjean.
This remark recalled Fauchelevent 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 realize 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 Fauchelevent.
He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a gourd 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 Fauchelevent to nail on the lid again.
Three minutes later they were out of the grave.
Moreover, Fauchelevent was perfectly composed. He took his time. The cemetery was closed. The arrival of the grave-digger Gribier was not to be apprehended. That "conscript" was at home busily engaged in looking for his card, and at some difficulty in finding it in his lodgings, since it was in Fauchelevent's pocket. Without a card, he could not get back into the cemetery.
Fauchelevent took the shovel, and Jean Valjean the pick-axe, and together they buried the empty coffin.
When the grave was full, Fauchelevent said to Jean Valjean:--
"Let us go. I will keep the shovel; do you carry off the mattock."
Night was falling.
Jean Valjean experienced rome 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 Fauchelevent. "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 alleys through which the hearse had passed. On arriving before the closed gate and the porter's pavilion Fauchelevent, 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 Fauchelevent; "what a capital idea that was of yours, Father Madeleine!"
They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest manner in the world. In the neighborhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two passports.
The Rue Vaugirard was deserted.
"Father Madeleine," said Fauchelevent as they went along, and raising his eyes to the houses, "Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No. 87."
"Here it is," said Jean Valjean.
"There is no one in the street," said Fauchelevent. "Give me your mattock and wait a couple of minutes for me."
Fauchelevent entered No. 87, 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 Gribier's voice.
Fauchelevent 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 bore 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 Fauchelevent 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."
Gribier gazed at him in stupefaction.
"Is it you, peasant?"
"And to-morrow 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 Gribier.
"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, conscript."
"Thanks, villager!" exclaimed Gribier, radiant. "The next time I will pay for the drinks."
七 “不要把卡片遗失了”①这句成语的出处
①“遗失卡片”的含义是“张慌失措”。
发生在那装着冉阿让的棺材上面的事是这样的。
当灵车已经走到老远，神甫和唱诗童子也都上车走了时，眼睛一直没有离开那埋葬工人的割风看见他弯下腰去取他那把直插在泥堆里的锹。
这时候，割风下了无比坚定的决心。
他走去站在坟坑和那埋葬工人的中间，叉着胳膊，说道“我付账！”
埋葬工人吃了一惊，瞪眼望着他，回答说：
“什么，乡下佬？”
割风重复说：
“我付账！”
“什么账？”
“酒账！”
“什么酒？”
“阿尔让特伊。”
“在哪儿，阿尔让特伊？”
“‘好木瓜’。”
“去你的！”埋葬工人说。
同时他铲起一锹土，摔在棺材上。
棺材发出一种空的响声。割风感到自己头重脚轻，几乎摔倒在坟坑里。他喊了起来，喉咙已开始被声气哽塞住了。
“伙计，趁现在‘好木瓜’还没有关门！”
埋葬工人又铲满一锹土。割风继续说。
“我付账！”
同时他一把抓住那埋葬工人的胳膊。
“请听我说，伙计。我是修院里的埋葬工人。我是来帮您忙的。这个活，晚上也可以做。我们先去喝一盅，回头再来干。”
他一面这样说，一面死死纠缠在这个没有多大希望的顽固想法上，但心里却有着这样凄惨的想法：“即使他肯去喝！他会不会醉呢？”
“天哪，”埋葬工人说，“您既然这样坚持，我奉陪就是。我们一道去喝。干了活再去，干活以前，绝对不成。”
同时他抖了抖他那把锹。割风又抓住了他。
“是六法郎一瓶的阿尔让特伊呢！”
“怎么哪，”埋葬工人说，“您简直是个敲钟的人。丁东，丁东①，除了这，您什么也不会说。走开，不用老在这儿罗嗦。” ①丁东指钟声，同时也影射dindon（愚人）。
同时他抛出了第二锹土。
到这时割风已不知自己在说什么了。
“来喝一口嘛，”他吼道，“既然是归我付账！”
“先让这孩子睡安顿了再说。”埋葬工人说。
他抛下了第三锹。
接着他又把锹插进土里，说道：
“您知道，今晚天气会冷，要是我们把这死女人丢在这里，不替她盖上被子，她会追在我们后面叫嚷起来的。”
这时，那埋葬工人正弯着身子在铲土，他那罩衫的口袋叉开了。
割风的一双仓皇无主的眼睛机械地落在那口袋上，注视着它。
太阳还没有被地平线遮住，天还相当亮，能让他望见在那张着嘴的衣袋里，有张白色的东西。
一个庇卡底的乡下人的眼睛所能有的闪光，从割风的眸子里全都放射出来了。他忽然得了个主意。
那埋葬工人正在注意他那一锹土，割风乘其不备，从后面把手伸到他的衣袋里，从袋子底里抽出了那张白色的东西。
那埋葬工人已向坟坑里摔下了第四锹土了。
正当他要回转身来取第五锹的时候，割风不动声色地望着他，对他说：
“喂，初出茅庐的小伙子，您有那卡片吗？”
埋葬工人停下来说：
“什么卡片？”
“太阳快下去了。”
“让它下去好了，请它戴上它的睡帽。”
“公墓的铁栏门快关上了。”
“关了又怎样？”
“您有那卡片吗？”
“啊，我的卡片！”埋葬工人说。
同时他搜着自己的衣袋。
搜了一个，又搜另一个。他转到背心口袋上去了，检查了第一个，翻转了第二个。
“没有，”他说，“我没有带我的卡片，我忘了。”
“十五法郎的罚金。”割风说。
埋葬工人的脸变青了。青就是铁青面孔的没有血色。
“啊耶稣??我的??瘸腿??天主??蹲下了??屁股！十五法郎的罚金！”
“三枚一百个苏的钱。”割风说。
埋葬工人丢下了他的锹。
割风的机会到了。
“不用慌，”割风说，“小伙子，不用悲观失望。不值得为了这就想寻短见，就想利用这坑坑。十五法郎，就是十五法郎，并且您有办法可以不付。我是老手，您是新手。我有许多办法、方法、巧法、妙法。作为朋友我替您出个主意。有件事很明显，太阳下去了，它已到了那圆屋顶的尖上，不出五分钟，公墓大门就关上了。”
“这是真话。”那埋葬工人回答说。
“五分钟里您来不及填满这个坑，它深到和鬼门关一样，这坟坑，您一定来不及在关铁栏门以前赶到门口钻出去。”
“这是对的。”
“既是这样，就免不了十五法郎的罚金。”
“十五法郎……”
“不过您还来得及……您住在什么地方？”
“离便门才两步路。打这里走去，一刻钟。伏吉拉尔街，八十七号。”
“您还有时间，拔腿飞奔，立刻跑出大门。”
“一点不错。”
“出了大门，您赶快奔回家，取了卡片再回来，公墓的门房替您开开门。您有了卡片，就不会罚款。您再埋好您的死人。
我呢，我替您在这里守住，免得他开了小差。”
“您救了我的命，乡下佬。”
“你快滚蛋。”割风说。
那埋葬工人，感激到了心花怒放，握着他的手一抖再抖，飕的一声跑了。
埋葬工人消失在树丛里以后，割风又倾耳细听，直到听不到他的脚步声了，他这才朝着那坟坑，弯下腰去，轻轻喊道：
“马德兰爷爷！”
没有回答的声音。
割风浑身一阵寒战。他爬了下去，不，应当说他滚了下去，跳到棺材头上，喊着说：
“您在里面吗？”
棺材里毫无动静。
割风抖到呼吸也停了，连忙取出他的钝口凿和铁锤，撬开了盖板。冉阿让的脸，在那暮色里显得惨白，眼睛也闭上了。
割风的头发直竖起来，他立起，靠着坟坑的内壁，几乎坍倒在棺材上。他望着冉阿让。
冉阿让直躺着，面色青灰，一动也不动。
割风轻轻地，象微风吹过似的说道：
“他死了！”
他又站起来，狠狠地叉起两条胳膊，用力之猛，使他两个捏紧了的拳头碰到了两肩，他喊着说：
“我是这样搭救他的，我！”
这时，那可怜的老人痛哭失声。一面自言自语，有些人认为天地间不会有独语的人，那是一种错误。强烈的激动是常会通过语言高声表达出来的。
“这是梅斯千爷爷的过失。他为什么要死呢，这蠢材？他有什么必要，一定要在别人料不到的时候上路呢？是他把马德兰先生害死的。马德兰爷爷！他躺在棺材里了。他算是归天了。全完了。所以，这种事，有什么道理好讲？啊！我的天主！他死了！好啊，他那小姑娘，我拿她怎么办？那卖水果的婆娘会说什么呢？这样一个人就这样死了，会有这样的鬼事！当我想起他从前爬到我的车子底下来的时候！马德兰爷爷！马德兰爷爷！天老爷，他被闷死了，我早就说过的。他硬不听我的话。好呀，这傻事干得真棒！他死了，这老好人，慈悲天主的慈悲人中的最最慈悲的人！还有他那小姑娘！啊！无论如何，我不回到那里去了，我。我就待在这里好了。干出了这种事！我们俩，都活到这把年纪了，还象两个老疯子似的，真不值得。不过，他究竟是怎样钻进那修院的呢？那起头就不对。那种事是干不得的。马德兰爷爷！马德兰爷爷！马德兰爷爷！马德兰！马德兰先生！市长先生！他听不见我的声音。请你赶快爬出来吧。”
他揪自己的头发。
远处树林里传来一阵尖锐的嘎嘎声。公墓的铁栏门关上了。
割风低下头去看冉阿让，又突然猛跳起来，直退到坑壁。
冉阿让的眼睛睁开了，并且望着他。
看见一个死人，是可怕的事；看见一个死而复活的人，几乎是同样可怕的。割风好象变成了一块石头，面如死灰，慌张失措，完全被惊愕激动的心情压倒了，他不知道要应付的是个活人呢还是个死人，他望着冉阿让，冉阿让也望着他。
“我睡着了。”冉阿让说。
他坐了起来。
割风跪了下去。
“公正慈悲的圣母！您吓得我好惨！”
随后他又立起来，大声说：
“谢谢，马德兰爷爷！”
冉阿让先头只是昏过去了一阵。新鲜空气继又使他苏醒。
欢乐是恐怖的回击。割风几乎要象冉阿让那样费了大劲才能苏醒过来。
“这样说，您并没有死！呵！您多么会闹着玩，您！要我千叫万叫，您才醒过来。我看见您眼睛闭上时，我说：‘好！他闷死了。’我几乎变成了一个恶疯子，一个非穿绳子背心不可的恶疯子。我也许会被人送进比塞特。要是您死了的话，您叫我怎么办？还有您那小姑娘！那水果铺的老板娘也会感到莫名其妙！我把孩子推到她的怀里，回过头来却说公公死了！好古怪的事！我天堂里的先圣先贤，好古怪的事！啊！您还活着，这是最精彩的。”
“我冷。”冉阿让说。
这句话把割风完全带回了现实，当时情况是紧迫的j@ !! !l* 瘃$ *.6g@男睦锘苟加凶乓恢制婀值南窒螅?蔷褪嵌缘笔毕斩竦拇?郴共荒艹浞忠馐兜健*
“让我们赶快离开这地方。”割风大声说。
他从衣袋里摸出一个葫芦瓶，那是他早准备好的。
“先喝一口。”他说。
葫芦瓶完成了由新鲜空气开始的效果，冉阿让喝了一大口烧酒，他这才完全感到恢复了。
他从棺材里爬出来，帮着割风再把盖子钉好。
三分钟过后他们已到了坟坑的外面。
割风这就放心了。他不慌不忙。公墓大门已经关上。不用顾虑那埋葬工人格利比埃的突然来到。那“小伙子”正在家里找他的卡片，他决不能从他屋子里找到，因为卡片在割风的衣袋里。没有卡片，他便进不了坟场。
割风拿着锹，冉阿让拿着镐，一同埋了那口空棺材。
坑填满时，割风对冉阿让说：
“我们走吧。我带着锹，您带着镐。”
天已经黑下来了。
冉阿让走起路来，行动还不大灵便。他在那棺材里睡僵了，已经有点变成僵尸了。在那四块木板里，关节已和死人一样硬化了。他必须在某种程度上先让自己从那冰坑的冷气里恢复过来。
“您冻僵了，”割风说，“可惜我是瘸子，不然的话，我们可以痛痛快快跑一程。”
“不要紧！”冉阿让回答说，“走上四步路，我的腿劲又回来了。”
他们沿着先头灵车走过的那些小路走。到了那关了的铁栏门和门房的亭子跟前，割风捏着埋葬工人的卡片，把它丢在匣子里，门房拉动绳子，门一开，他们便出来了。
“这真是方便！”割风说，“您的主意多么好，马德兰爷爷！”
他们轻易地越过了伏吉拉尔便门，没有遇到丝毫困难。在公墓附近一带，一把锹和一把镐等于是两张通行证。
伏吉拉尔街上一个人也没有。
“马德兰爷爷，”割风一面抬起眼睛望着街旁的房屋，一面走着说，“您眼睛比我的好。请告诉我八十七号在什么地方。”
“巧得很，就是这儿。”冉阿让说。
“街上没有人，”割风接着说，“您把镐给我，等我两分钟。”
割风走进八十七号，受到那种时时都把穷人引向最上层的本能作用所驱使，他一直往上走，在黑暗中，敲着一间顶楼的门。有个人的声音回答：
“请进来。”
那正是格利比埃的声音。
割风推开了门。那埋葬工人的屋子，正和所有穷苦人的住处一样，是一个既无家具而又堆满东西的破窠。一只装运货物的木箱??也许是口棺材??代替橱柜，一个奶油钵代替水盆’草荐代替床，方砖地代替椅子和桌子。在一个屋角里铺着一条破垫子，是一条破烂地毯的残存部分，在那上面，有个瘦妇人和许多孩子，大家挤作一堆。这穷苦家庭里的一切，都还留着一阵东翻西找的痕迹。几乎可以说，在那里发生过一场“个人”的地震。许多东西的盖子都没有盖好，破衣烂衫散乱在四处，瓦罐被打破了，母亲哭过了，孩子们也许还挨了打，那就是一阵顽强愤懑的搜查所留下的痕迹。显然，那埋葬工人曾疯狂地寻找他那张卡片，并且他把遗失的责任推到那破窝里的一切东西和人的身上，从瓦罐一直到他的妻子。他正在愁苦失望。
可是割风，因为他急于要结束当时的险境，完全没有注意到他的胜利的不幸的这一面。
他走进去，说道：
“我把您的镐和锹带来了。”
格利比埃满脸惊慌，望着他说：
“是您，乡下佬？”
“明天早晨您可以到坟场的门房那里去取您的卡片。”
同时他把锹和镐放在方砖地上。
“这是怎么说？”格利比埃问。
“这就是说：您让您的卡片从衣袋里掉了出来，您走了以后，我从地上把它拾起来了，我把那死人埋好了，我把坑填满了，我替您干完了活，门房会把您的卡片还给您，您不用付十五法郎了。就这样，小伙子。”
“谢谢，村老倌！”格利比埃眉飞色舞地喊道，“下次喝酒，归我付账。”
