"After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Rustic, my name is Gribier."
Fauchelevent, who was very pale, stared at Gribier; he was a tall, thin, livid, thoroughly funereal man. He looked like a broken-down doctor who had turned grave-digger. Fauchelevent burst into a laugh.
"Ah, what funny things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead, but long live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who he is? A bottle of Surêne, morbigou! real Paris Surêne. And so Father Mestienne is dead; I feel sorry for him, as he was a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellow too, are you not, comrade? We will drink a glass together, eh?"
The man answered, "I have finished my education, and I never drink."
The hearse had set out again, and was now going along the main avenue. Fauchelevent had decreased his pace, and limped more through anxiety than infirmity. The grave-digger walked in front of him, and Fauchelevent once again surveyed this unknown Gribier. He was one of those men who when young look old, and who, though thin, are very strong.
"Comrade!" Fauchelevent cried.
The man turned round.
"I am the convent grave-digger."
"My colleague," the man said.
Fauchelevent, uneducated though very sharp, understood that he had to deal with a formidable species, a fine speaker; he growled,—