Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 1 Which treats of the Manner of enteri

It was into this house that Jean Valjean had, as Fauchelevent expressed it, "fallen from the sky."

He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue Polonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of the night, was the nuns chanting matins; that hall, of which he had caught a glimpse in the gloom, was the chapel. That phantom which he had seen stretched on the ground was the sister who was making reparation; that bell, the sound of which had so strangely surprised him, was the gardener's bell attached to the knee of Father Fauchelevent.

Cosette once put to bed, Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent had, as we have already seen, supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a good, crackling fire; then, the only bed in the hut being occupied by Cosette, each threw himself on a truss of straw.

Before he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said: "I must remain here henceforth." This remark trotted through Fauchelevent's head all night long.

To tell the truth, neither of them slept.

Jean Valjean, feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his scent, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to Paris. Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded him in this cloister. Jean Valjean had, henceforth, but one thought,-- to remain there. Now, for an unfortunate man in his position, this convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of places; the most dangerous, because, as no men might enter there, if he were discovered, it was a flagrant offence, and Jean Valjean would find but one step intervening between the convent and prison; the safest, because, if he could manage to get himself accepted there and remain there, who would ever seek him in such a place? To dwell in an impossible place was safety.

On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began by declaring to himself that he understood nothing of the matter. How had M. Madeleine got there, when the walls were what they were? Cloister walls are not to be stepped over. How did he get there with a child? One cannot scale a perpendicular wall with a child in one's arms. Who was that child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M. sur M., and he knew nothing of what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions; and besides, Fauchelevent said to himself: "One does not question a saint." M. Madeleine had preserved all his prestige in Fauchelevent's eyes. Only, from some words which Jean Valjean had let fall, the gardener thought he could draw the inference that M. Madeleine had probably become bankrupt through the hard times, and that he was pursued by his creditors; or that he had compromised himself in some political affair, and was in hiding; which last did not displease Fauchelevent, who, like many of our peasants of the North, had an old fund of Bonapartism about him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine had selected the convent as a refuge, and it was quite simple that he should wish to remain there. But the inexplicable point, to which Fauchelevent returned constantly and over which he wearied his brain, was that M. Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that little girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to them, and still did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had just made its entrance into Fauchelevent's hut. Fauchelevent groped about amid conjectures, and could see nothing clearly but this: "M. Madeleine saved my life." This certainty alone was sufficient and decided his course. He said to himself: "It is my turn now." He added in his conscience: "M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was a question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of dragging me out." He made up his mind to save M. Madeleine.

Nevertheless, he put many questions to himself and made himself divers replies: "After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a thief? Just the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? Just the same. Since he is a saint, shall I save him? Just the same."

But what a problem it was to manage to have him remain in the convent! Fauchelevent did not recoil in the face of this almost chimerical undertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy without any other ladder than his self-devotion, his good will, and a little of that old rustic cunning, on this occasion enlisted in the service of a generous enterprise, undertook to scale the difficulties of the cloister, and the steep escarpments of the rule of Saint-Benoit. Father Fauchelevent was an old man who had been an egoist all his life, and who, towards the end of his days, halt, infirm, with no interest left to him in the world, found it sweet to be grateful, and perceiving a generous action to be performed, flung himself upon it like a man, who at the moment when he is dying, should find close to his hand a glass of good wine which he had never tasted, and should swallow it with avidity. We may add, that the air which he had breathed for many years in this convent had destroyed all personality in him, and had ended by rendering a good action of some kind absolutely necessary to him.

So he took his resolve: to devote himself to M. Madeleine.

We have just called him a poor peasant of Picardy. That description is just, but incomplete. At the point of this story which we have now reached, a little of Father Fauchelevent's physiology becomes useful. He was a peasant, but he had been a notary, which added trickery to his cunning, and penetration to his ingenuousness. Having, through various causes, failed in his business, he had descended to the calling of a carter and a laborer. But, in spite of oaths and lashings, which horses seem to require, something of the notary had lingered in him. He had some natural wit; he talked good grammar; he conversed, which is a rare thing in a village; and the other peasants said of him: "He talks almost like a gentleman with a hat." Fauchelevent belonged, in fact, to that species, which the impertinent and flippant vocabulary of the last century qualified as demi-bourgeois, demi-lout, and which the metaphors showered by the chateau upon the thatched cottage ticketed in the pigeon-hole of the plebeian: rather rustic, rather citified; pepper and salt. Fauchelevent, though sorely tried and harshly used by fate, worn out, a sort of poor, threadbare old soul, was, nevertheless, an impulsive man, and extremely spontaneous in his actions; a precious quality which prevents one from ever being wicked. His defects and his vices, for he had some, were all superficial; in short, his physiognomy was of the kind which succeeds with an observer. His aged face had none of those disagreeable wrinkles at the top of the forehead, which signify malice or stupidity.

At daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an enormous deal of thinking, and beheld M. Madeleine seated on his truss of straw, and watching Cosette's slumbers. Fauchelevent sat up and said:--

"Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter?"

This remark summed up the situation and aroused Jean Valjean from his revery.

The two men took counsel together.

"In the first place," said Fauchelevent, "you will begin by not setting foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the garden and we are done for."

"That is true."

"Monsieur Madeleine," resumed Fauchelevent, "you have arrived at a very auspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; one of the ladies is very ill. This will prevent them from looking much in our direction. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours are being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies them. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we are all saints here; all the difference between them and me is that they say `our cell,' and that I say `my cabin.' The prayers for the dying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at peace here for to-day; but I will not answer for to-morrow."

"Still," observed Jean Valjean, "this cottage is in the niche of the wall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not visible from the convent."

"And I add that the nuns never come near it."

"Well?" said Jean Valjean.

The interrogation mark which accentuated this "well" signified: "it seems to me that one may remain concealed here?" It was to this interrogation point that Fauchelevent responded:--

"There are the little girls."

"What little girls?" asked Jean Valjean.

Just as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to explain the words which he had uttered, a bell emitted one stroke.

"The nun is dead," said he. "There is the knell."

And he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen.

The bell struck a second time.

"It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from the church.--You see, they play. At recreation hours it suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send them all hither, in spite of prohibitions, to hunt and rummage for it all about here. Those cherubs are devils."

"Who?" asked Jean Valjean.

"The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered. They would shriek: `Oh! a man!' There is no danger to-day. There will be no recreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers. You hear the bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute. It is the death knell."

"I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils."

And Jean Valjean thought to himself:--

"Here is Cosette's education already provided."

Fauchelevent exclaimed:--

"Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl around you! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have the plague. You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild beast."

Jean Valjean fell into more and more profound thought.--"This convent would be our salvation," he murmured.

Then he raised his voice:--

"Yes, the difficulty is to remain here."

"No," said Fauchelevent, "the difficulty is to get out."

Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.

"To get out!"

"Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first necessary to get out."

And after waiting until another stroke of the knell had sounded, Fauchelevent went on:--

"You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you? For me, you fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require one to enter by the door."

All at once they heard a rather complicated pealing from another bell.

"Ah!" said Fauchelevent, "they are ringing up the vocal mothers. They are going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any one dies. She died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak. But cannot you get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do not ask for the sake of questioning you, but how did you get in?"

Jean Valjean turned pale; the very thought of descending again into that terrible street made him shudder. You make your way out of a forest filled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine a friendly counsel that shall advise you to return thither! Jean Valjean pictured to himself the whole police force still engaged in swarming in that quarter, agents on the watch, sentinels everywhere, frightful fists extended towards his collar, Javert at the corner of the intersection of the streets perhaps.

"Impossible!" said he. "Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the sky."

"But I believe it, I believe it," retorted Fauchelevent. "You have no need to tell me that. The good God must have taken you in his hand for the purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped you. Only, he meant to place you in a man's convent; he made a mistake. Come, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and inform the municipality that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a corpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at all fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lifts something else too. How quickly they have had the doctor summoned this time! What is the matter? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name?"

"Cosette."

"She is your daughter?

You are her grandfather, that is?"

"Yes."

"It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service door which opens on the courtyard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my vintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father Fauchelevent goes out with his basket--that is perfectly natural. You will tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I will leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a fruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller's ear, that she is a niece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to-morrow. Then the little one will re-enter with you; for I will contrive to have you re-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out?"

Jean Valjean shook his head.

"No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent. Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette."

Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear with the middle finger of his left hand, a sign of serious embarrassment.

A third peal created a diversion.

"That is the dead-doctor taking his departure," said Fauchelevent. "He has taken a look and said: `She is dead, that is well.' When the doctor has signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker's company sends a coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister, the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up. That forms a part of my gardener's duty. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is placed in a lower hall of the church which communicates with the street, and into which no man may enter save the doctor of the dead. I don't count the undertaker's men and myself as men. It is in that hall that I nail up the coffin. The undertaker's men come and get it, and whip up, coachman! that's the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box with nothing in it, they take it away again with something in it. That's what a burial is like. De profundis."

A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of the sleeping Cosette, who lay with her mouth vaguely open, and had the air of an angel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen to gazing at her. He was no longer listening to Fauchelevent.

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."

The door was the one leading to the parlor reserved for seeing the gardener on business. This parlor adjoined the chapter hall. The prioress, seated on the only chair in the parlor, was waiting for Fauchelevent.

冉阿让，按照割风的说法，“从天上掉下来”时，正是掉在那修院里。

他在波隆梭街的转角处翻过了园子的围墙。他半夜听到的那阵仙乐，是修女们做早弥撒的歌声；他在黑暗中探望过的那个大厅，是小礼拜堂；他看见伏在地上的那个鬼影，是一个行补赎礼的修女；使他惊奇的那种铃声，是结在园丁割风爷膝弯上的铜铃。

珂赛特上床以后，我们知道，冉阿让和割风俩便对着一炉好柴火进晚餐，喝了一盅葡萄酒，吃了一块干酪；过后，由于那破屋里唯一的一张床已由珂赛特占用，他们便分头躺在一堆麦秸上面。冉阿让合眼以前说道：“从此以后，我得住在此地了。”那句话在割风的脑子里翻腾了一整夜。

其实，他们俩，谁也没有睡着。

冉阿让感到自己已被人发觉，而且沙威紧跟在后面，他知道如果他回到巴黎城里，他和珂赛特准定会玩完。新起的那阵风既然已把他吹到这修院里来，冉阿让唯一的想法便是在那里待下去。对一个处在他那种情况下的苦命人来说，那修院是个最危险也最安全的地方，说最危险，是因为那里不许任何男人进去，万一被人发现，就得给人当作现行犯，冉阿让只要走一步路，便又从修院跨进监牢；说最安全，是因为如果能得到许可，在那里住下来，谁又会找到那里去呢？住在一个不可能住下的地方，正是万全之策。

在割风方面，他心里也正打开了鼓。最先，他承认自己什么也闹不清楚。围墙那么高，马德兰先生怎么进来的呢？修院的围墙是没有人敢翻的。怎么又会有个孩子呢？手里抱个孩子，就翻不了那样一道笔直的墙。那孩子究竟是谁？他们俩是从什么地方来的？割风自从来到这修院后，他再也没有听人谈到过滨海蒙特勒伊，也完全不知道外面发生过什么事。马德兰爷爷那副神气又使人不敢多开口，此外割风心里在想：“在圣人面前不能瞎问。”马德兰先生在他的心中仍和往日一样崇高。不过，从冉阿让透露出来的几句话里，那园丁觉得可以作出这样的推断：由于时局艰难，马德兰先生也许亏了本，正受着债主们的追逼，或许他受到什么政治问题的牵累，不得不隐藏起来。割风想到这一点，也没有什么不高兴，因为，正和我们北部的许多农民一样，他在思想深处是早已靠拢波拿巴①的。马德兰先生既然要躲起来，并且已把这修院当作他的避难所，那么，他要在此地待下去，那也是极自然的事。但不可理解的是，割风在反复思索，老捉摸不出的一点是：马德兰是怎样进来的，他又怎么会带个小姑娘。割风看得见他们，摸得着他们，和他们谈过话，却无法信以为真。闷葫芦刚刚掉进了割风的茅舍。割风象盲人摸路似的，胡乱猜想了一阵，越想越糊涂，但有一点却搞清楚了：马德兰先生救过我的命。这唯一可以确定下来的一点已足使他下定决心了。他背着他想道：“现在轮到我来救他的命了。”他心里还加上这么一句：“当初需要人钻到车子底下救我出来时，马德兰先生却没有象我这样思前想后。”

①就是说，对当时的王朝不满。

他决定搭救马德兰先生。

可是他心里仍七上八下，考虑到许多事情：“他从前待我那么好，万一他是匪徒，我该不该救他呢？还是应该救他。假使他是个杀人犯，我该不该救他呢？还是应该救他。他既然是个圣人，我救不救他呢？当然救他。”

但是要让他能留在这修院里那可是个难题！但割风在那种近乎荒唐的妄想前仍一点不动摇。那个来自庇卡底的可怜的农民决计要越过修院的种种难关和圣伯努瓦的教规所设下的种种危崖峭壁，但是他除了赤忱的心、坚定的意志和为乡下老头子所常有而这次打算用来扶危济困的那一点点小聪明外，便没有其他的梯子。割风爷，这个老汉，生平为人一向自私，晚年腿也瘸了，身体也残废了，对人世已没什么可留恋了，这时他觉得感恩图报是件饶有趣味的事，当看见有件善事可做时便连忙扑了上去，正如一个从来不曾尝过好酒的人临死时忽然发现手边有着一杯美酒，便想取来痛饮一番一样。我们还可以说，许多年来他在那修院里吸取的空气已消灭了他原来的性格，最后使他感到他有做任何一件好事的必要。

因此他下定决心，要替马德兰先生出力。

我们刚才称他为“来自庇卡底的可怜的农民”。那种称呼是恰当的，不过不全面。在故事发展到现阶段，把割风的面貌叙述一下还是有好处的。他原是一个农民，但是他当过公证人，因此他在原有的精明以外又添上了辩才，在原有的质朴以外又添上了剖析能力。由于多方面的原因，他的事业失败了，后来便沦为车夫和手工工人。但是，尽管他经常说粗话挥鞭子棗据说那样做对牲口是必要的棗在内心深处他却仍是个公证人。他生来就有些小聪明，不犯常见之语病，他能攀谈，那是乡下少见的事，农民都说他谈起话来俨然象个戴帽的老爷。割风正是前一世纪那种轻浮不得体的文词所指的那种“半绅士半平民”的人，也就是达官贵人在对待贫寒人家时所用的那些形容平民的隐语所标注的“略似乡民，略似市民，胡椒和盐”。割风是那种衣服磨损到露出麻线底子的穷老汉，他虽然饱受命运的考验和折磨，却还是一个直肠人，很爽朗，那是一种使人从来不生恶念的宝贵品质。因为他有过的缺点和短处全是表面的，总之，他的面貌在观察者的眼里是成功的。老人的额上绝没有那种暗示凶恶、愚蠢或惹人厌恶的皱纹。

破晓时，割风从四面八方全想过了，他睁开眼睛看见马德兰先生坐在他的麦秸堆上，望着珂赛特睡觉。割风翻身坐起来说：

“您现在既已来到此地，您打算怎样来说你进来的事呢？”

一句话概括了当时的处境，把冉阿让从梦境状态中唤醒了。

两个人开始商量。

“首先，”割风说，“您应当注意的第一件事，便是小姑娘和您，不要到这间屋子外面去。跨进园子一步，我们便完了。”

“对。”

“马德兰先生，”割风又说，“您到这儿来，拣了一个极好的日子，我是要说，拣了一个极坏的日子，我们有个嬷嬷正害着重病，因此大家都不大注意我们这面的事。听说她快死了。她们正在做四十小时的祈祷。整个修院都天翻地覆了。她们全在为那件事忙乱着。正准备上路的那位嬷嬷是位圣女。其实，我们这儿的人全是圣人。在她们和我之间，唯一不同的地方便是：她们说‘我们的静室，’而我说‘我的窠。’马上就要替断气的人做祷告了，接着又得替死人做祷告。今天一天，我们这里不会有事，明天，我却不敢担保。”

“可是，”冉阿让指出说，“这所房子是在墙角里，被那破房子遮住了，还有树木，修院那边的人望不见。”

“而且，我告诉您，修女们也从来不到这边来的。”

“那岂不更好？”冉阿让说。

强调“岂不更好”的疑问语气是想说：“我认为可以偷偷在此地住下来。”割风针对这疑问回答说：

“还有那些小姑娘呢。”

“哪些小姑娘？”冉阿让问。

割风张着嘴正要解释他刚说出的那句话，有口钟响了一下。

“那嬷嬷死了，”他说，“这是报丧的钟。”

同时他作出手势要冉阿让听。

钟又敲了一下。

“这是报丧钟，马德兰先生。这钟将要一分钟一分钟地敲下去，连续敲上二十四小时，直到那尸首离开礼拜堂为止。您瞧，又是一下。在课间游戏时，只要有个皮球滚来了，她们全会追上来，什么规矩也不管了，跑到这儿来乱找乱翻的。这些小天使全是些小鬼。”

“谁？”冉阿让问。

“那些小姑娘们。您马上会被她们发现的，您放心好了。她们会叫嚷说：‘嘿！一个男人！’不过今天不会有危险。今天她们不会有游戏的时间。整整一天全是祷告。您听钟声。我早告诉过您了，一分钟一下。这是报丧钟。”

“我懂了，割风爷。您说的是寄读学校的孩子们。”

冉阿让心里又独自想道：

“这样，珂赛特的教养问题也全解决了。”

割风嚷着说：

“妈的！有的是小姑娘！她们会围着您起哄！她们会逃走！在这儿做个男人，就等于害了瘟病。您知道她们在我的蹄子上系了一个铃，把我当作野兽看待。”

冉阿让越想越深。“这修院能救我们，”他嘟囔着，接着他提高嗓子说：

“对。问题在于怎样才能待下来。”

“不对。问题在于怎样才能出去。”

冉阿让觉得血全涌到心里去了。

“出去！”

“是呀，马德兰先生。为了回来，您得先出去啊。”

等到那钟又敲了一下，割风才接着说：

“她们不会就这样让您待在此地。您是从哪里来的？对我来说，您是从天上掉下来的，因为我认识您，可是那些修女们，她们只许人家走大门进来。”

忽然，另一口钟敲出了一阵相当复杂的声音。

“啊！”割风说，“这是召集参议嬷嬷们的。她们要开会。每次有人死了，总得开会。她是天亮时死的。人死多半是在天亮时。难道您就不能打您进来的那条路出去吗？我们来谈谈，我不是有意来问您，您是打什么地方进来的？”

冉阿让脸色发白了。只要想到再回到那条吓得坏人的街上去，他便浑身颤栗。你从一处虎豹横行的森林里出来，已经到了外面，却又有一个朋友要你回到那里去，你想想那种味儿吧。冉阿让一闭上眼就看见那批警务人员还全在附近一带东寻西找，密探在侦察，四处都布置了眼线，无数只手伸向他的衣领，沙威也许就在那岔路口的角上。

“不可能！”他说，“割风爷，您就认为我是从那上面掉下来的吧。”

“那不成问题，我就是那么想的，”割风接着说，“您不用再向我说那些话了。慈悲的天主也许曾把您捏在他的手心里，要把您看清楚随即又把您放了。不过他原是要把您放在一个男人的修院里，结果他搞错了。您听，又是一阵钟声。这是敲给门房听的，要他通知市政机关去通知那位验尸的医生到这儿来看看死人。所有这些，全是死了以后的麻烦事。那些好嬷嬷们，她们并不见得怎么喜欢这种访问。一个医生，啥也不管。他揭开面罩。有时还要揭开旁的东西。她们这次通知医生，会这么快！这里难道有些什么名堂不成？您的小姑娘还睡着老不醒。她叫什么名字？”

“珂赛特。”

“是您的闺女？看样子，您是她的爷爷吧？”

“对。”

“对她来说，要从这里出去，倒好办。我有一扇通大门院子的便门。我敲门。门房开门。我背上背个背箩，小姑娘待在箩里。我走出大门。割风爷背着背箩出大门，那再简单没有。您嘱咐一声，要小妞待在箩里不吭气就成。她上面盖着块油布。要不了多少时候，我把她寄托在绿径街一个卖水果的老朋友家里，要住多久就住多久，那是个聋子，她家里有张小床。我会对着那卖水果的婆子的耳朵喊，说这是我的侄女，要她照顾一下，我明天就会来领的。这之后，小妞再和您一道回来。可是您，您怎样才能出去呢？”

冉阿让点了点头。

“只要没有人看见我。关键就在这儿，割风爷。您想个办法让我也和珂赛特一样躲在背箩里和油布下面，再把我送出去。”

割风用左手的中指搔着耳垂，那是表示十分为难的样子。

第三阵钟声打断了他们的思路。

“验尸医生走了，”割风说，“他看过了，并且说：‘她死了，好的。’医生签了去天国的护照以后，殡仪馆便会送来一口棺材。如果是个老嬷嬷，就由老嬷嬷们入殓，如果是个小嬷嬷，就由小嬷嬷们入殓。殓过以后，我去钉钉子。这是我的园丁工作的一部分。园丁多少也是埋葬工人。女尸停放在礼拜堂的一间临街的矮厅里，那里除了验尸的医生外，其余的男人全不许进去。我不算男人，殡仪馆的执事们和我都不算男人。我到那厅里去把棺材钉上，殡仪馆的执事们把它抬走，车夫扬起马鞭，人去天国就是这样去的。送来的是个空匣子，抬走的却是个装了东西的，这就叫送葬。‘入土为安’。”

一线阳光横照在珂赛特的脸上，她还没有醒来，嘴微微张着，就象一个饮光的天使。冉阿让早就呆望着她，不再听割风唠叨了。

没有人听，那并不成为一种住嘴的理由，那个管园子的老好人仍罗罗嗦嗦说下去：

“到伏吉拉尔公墓去挖一个坑。据说那伏吉拉尔公墓不久就要取消了。那是个旧时的公墓，不合章程，没有制服，快要退休了。真可惜，有这么一个公墓多方便。在那里。我有一个朋友，叫梅斯千爷爷，是个埋葬工人。这里的修女有种特权，她们在天快黑时被送进那公墓。省公署特别为她们订了这样一条规则。可是，从昨天起，发生了多少事啊！受难嬷嬷死了，马德兰爷爷……”

“完了。”冉阿让一面苦笑一面说。

割风把那个字弹了回去：

“圣母！要是您要在这儿永远待下去，那可真是种埋葬了。”

第四阵钟声突起。割风连忙把那条系铃铛的带子从钉子上取下来，系在自己的膝弯上。

“这一次，是我。院长嬷嬷叫我。好家伙，这皮带上的扣针扎了我一下。马德兰先生，您不要动，等我回来。有新玩意儿呢。您要是饿，那儿有酒、面包、干酪。”

接着，他往屋子外面走，嘴里一面说：“来啦！来啦！”

冉阿让望着他急忙从园中穿过去，尽量迈开他的瘸腿，边走边望两旁的瓜田。

割风一路走去，铃声响个不停，把那些修女们全吓跑了，不到十分钟，他在一扇门上轻轻敲了一下，一个柔和的声音回答说：“永远如此。永远如此。”那就是说：“请进。”

那扇门是接待室的门，接待室是由于工作需要留下来接待园丁的。隔壁便是会议室。院长正坐在接待室里唯一的一张椅子上等待着割风。