The grave-digger resumed:--
"Peasant, I have seven small children who must be fed.
As they must eat, I cannot drink."
And he added, with the satisfaction of a serious man who is turning a phrase well:--
"Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst."
The hearse skirted a clump of cypress-trees, quitted the grand alley, turned into a narrow one, entered the waste land, and plunged into a thicket.
This indicated the immediate proximity of the place of sepulture.
Fauchelevent slackened his pace, but he could not detain the hearse.
Fortunately, the soil, which was light and wet with the winter rains, clogged the wheels and retarded its speed.
He approached the grave-digger.
"They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine," murmured Fauchelevent.
"Villager," retorted the man, "I ought not be a grave-digger. My father was a porter at the Prytaneum [Town-Hall]. He destined me for literature.
But he had reverses.
He had losses on ''change. I was obliged to renounce the profession of author.
But I am still a public writer."
"So you are not a grave-digger, then?" returned Fauchelevent, clutching at this branch, feeble as it was.▲思▲兔▲在▲線▲閱▲讀▲
"The one does not hinder the other.
I cumulate."
Fauchelevent did not understand this last word.
"Come have a drink," said he.
Here a remark becomes necessary.