All at once the hearse stopped; it had reached the gates, and the permission for burying must be shown. The undertaker conversed with the porter, and during this colloquy, which occupied two or three minutes, a stranger stationed himself behind the hearse by Fauchelevent's side. He was a sort of workman, wearing a jacket with wide pockets, and holding a spade under his arm. Fauchelevent looked at the stranger, and asked him,-- "Who are you?" The man replied, "The grave-digger." If any man could survive a cannon-ball right in the middle of his chest, he would cut such a face as Fauchelevent did. "Why, Father Mestienne is the grave-digger." "Was." "How, was?" "He is dead." Fauchelevent was prepared for anything except this, that a grave-digger could die; and yet, it is true that grave-diggers themselves die; while digging holes for others, they prepare one for themselves. Fauchelevent stood with widely-opened mouth, and had scarce strength to stammer,-- "Why, it is impossible." "It is the case." "But the grave-digger," he went on feebly, "is Father Mestienne." "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,-- "So, then, Father Mestienne is dead." The man answered, "Completely. Le bon Dieu consulted his bill-book. Father Mestienne was due, and so Father Mestienne is dead." Fauchelevent repeated mechanically, "Le bon Dieu." "Le bon Dieu," the man said authoritatively,--"with philosophers the Eternal Father; with Jacobins, the Supreme Being." "Are we not going to form an acquaintance?" Fauchelevent stammered. "It is formed. You are a rustic, I am a Parisian."