“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.”