That one is not listened to is no reason for preserving silence. The good old gardener went on tranquilly with his babble:—
“The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they are going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cemetery which is outside the regulations, which has no uniform, and which is going to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient. I have a friend there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a special permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many events have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine—”
“Is buried,” said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.
Fauchelevent caught the word.
“Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial.”
A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached the belled knee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee again.
“This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I am pricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don’t stir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up. If you are hungry, there is wine, bread and cheese.”
And he hastened out of the hut, crying: “Coming! coming!”
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as fast as his crooked leg would permit, casting a sidelong glance by the way on his melon patch.
Less than ten minutes later, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell put the nuns in his road to flight, tapped gently at a door, and a gentle voice replied: “Forever! Forever!” that is to say: “Enter.”