"Fifteen francs' fine," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green, for the pallor of livid men is green.
"Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed; "fifteen francs' fine!"
"Three one hundred sous pieces," said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger let his shovel fall, and Fauchelevent's turn had arrived.
"Come, conscript," said the old gardener, "no despair; you need not take advantage of the grave to commit suicide. Fifteen francs are fifteen francs, and besides, you can avoid paying them. I am old and you a new-comer, and I am up to all the tricks and dodges. I will give you a piece of friendly advice. One thing is clear,—the sun is setting; it is touching the dome, and the cemetery will shut in five minutes."
"That is true."—
"Five minutes will not be enough for you to fill up this grave, which is deuced deep, and reach the gates in time to get out before they close."
"Perfectly correct."
"In that case, fifteen francs' fine. But you have time,—where do you live?"