The night was falling.
Jean Valjean felt some difficulty in moving and walking; for in the coffin he had grown stiff, and become to some extent a corpse. The rigidity of death had seized upon him between these four planks, and he must, so to speak, become thawed.
"You are stiff," said Fauchelevent; "it is a pity that I am a cripple, or we would have a run."
"Nonsense," said Valjean, "half a dozen strides will make my legs all right again."
They went along the avenues by which the hearse had passed, and on reaching the gate, Fauchelevent threw the grave-digger's card into the box; the porter pulled the string, and they went out.
"How famously it has all gone," said Fauchelevent; "it was an excellent idea you had, Father Madeleine!"
They passed through the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest way in the world, for in the vicinity of a cemetery, a spade and a pick are two passports. The Rue de Vaugirard was deserted.
"Father Madeleine," Fauchelevent said, as they walked along, "you have better eyes than I have, so show me No. 87."
"Here it is," said Valjean.
"There is no one in the street," Fauchelevent continued; "give me the pick, and wait for me a couple of minutes."