Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the one hundred forty-second chapter of Les Miserables.

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>> Brie Carlisle: Take a look, in the book and let's see

what we can find.

Take it chapter by chapter. One

fight M at a time

so many adventures and

mountains we can climb

to give word for word, line by

line, one bite at a time.

>> Brie Carlisle: Welcome to bite at a time books where we read you your

favorite classics one byte at a time. my name is

Bre Carlisle and I love to read and wanted to

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>> Brie Carlisle: Values today well be

continuing.

Les Miserables by Victor

Hugo chapter

five it is not necessary to be

drunk in order to be immortal.

On the following day, as, the sun was

declining, the very rare

passersby on the boulevard du main pulled off their

hats to an old fashioned hearse

ornamented with skulls, crossbones, and

tears. This hearse contained

a coffin covered with white cloth

over which spread a large black cross like

a huge corpse with drooping arms. A

mourning coach in which could be seen a priest in a

surplice, and a choir boy in his red cap

followed two undertakers.

Men in grey uniforms trimmed with black walked

on the right and the left of the hearse. Behind

it came an old man in the garments of a laborer who limped

along. The procession was going in the direction of

the vaudriard cemetery. The handle of

a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel,

and the antennae of a pair of pincers were visible protruding

from the mans pocket. The vaudreuil

cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of

Paris. It had its peculiar

usages, just as it had its carriage entrance

and its house door, which old people in the quarter,

who clung tenaciously to ancient words, still called

the Porte Cavaliere and the portes

pianton. The Bernardines, bernadictines of

the rue Petite picpus had obtained permission,

as weve already stated, to be buried there in a corner apart

and at night, the plot of land having

formerly belonged to their community.

The gravediggers being thus bound to service in the

evening and summer and at night and winter in the

cemetery, they were subjected to a special

discipline. The gates of the Paris cemeteries

closed at that epoch at sundown

and this being a municipal regulation, the vaudevard

cemetery was bound by it like the rest.

The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous

grated gates adjoining a pavilion built by the architect

Pernette and inhabited by the doorkeeper of the

cemetery. These gates therefore

swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the

sun disappeared behind the dome of the invalids.

If any gravedigger were delayed after that moment in

the cemetery, there was but one way for him to

get out his gravediggers card, furnished

by the Department of public funerals. A sort

of letterbox was constructed in the porters

window. The gravedigger dropped his card into

this box. The porter heard it fall,

pulled the rope and the small door opened.

If the man had not his card, he mentioned his

name. The porter, who was sometimes in bed and

asleep, Rose, came out and identified

the man and opened the gate with his key. The

gravedigger stepped out but had to pay a fine of, 15

francs. This cemetery, with

its peculiarities outside the regulations,

embarrassed the cemetery of the administration.

It was suppressed a little later than 1830.

the cemetery of Montparnasse, called the eastern

cemetery, succeeded to it and inherited

that famous dram shop next to the vaudevard

cemetery, which was surmounted by quince painted

on a board and which formed an angle

one side on the drinkers tables and the other on the

tombs, with this sign obon

coing. The vaudevard cemetery

was what may be called a faded cemetery.

It was falling into disuse. Dampness

was invading it, the flowers were deserting

it. The bourgeois did not care much about being

buried in the vaudriard. It hinted at

poverty. Pere Lachaise, if

you please. To be buried in Pere Lachaise is

equivalent to having furniture of mahogany. it is

recognized as elegant. The vaudevard

cemetery was a venerable enclosure planted like an old

fashioned french garden. Straight

alleys, box toya trees,

holly, ancient tombs beneath aged

cypress trees and very tall

grass in the evening. It was tragic.

There. There were very lugubrious

lines about it. The sun had not yet

set when the hearse with the white pall and the black cross entered

the avenue of the vaudrer cemetery. The lame

man who followed it was no other than Fauchelevert.

The interment of mother crucifixion in the vault under the

altar, the exit of Cosette, the introduction

of Jean Valjean to the dead room, all had been

executed without difficulty, and there had been

no hitch. Let us remark in

passing that the burial of mother crucifixion under the altar of the

convent is a perfectly venial offense in our

sight. It is one of the faults which resemble a

duty. The nuns had committed

it not only without difficulty, but

even with the applause of their own consciences.

In the cloister, what is called the government is

only an intermeddling with authority, an

interference which is always questionable

in the first place. The rule as, for the code

we shall see. Make as many laws as you

please, men, but keep them for yourselves. The

tribute to Caesar is never anything but the remnants of the tribute to

God. A prince is nothing in the presence

of a principle. Fauchelevert limped along behind the

hearse in a very contented frame of mind.

His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one

for the convent, the other against it, any other with

Monsieur Madeleine had succeeded to all appearance.

Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful

tranquillities which are contagious.

Fauchelevert no longer felt doubtful as to his success.

What remained to be done was a mere nothing.

Within the last two years, he had made good father Mestine,

a chubby cheeked person. Drunk at least ten

times. He played with Father Mestine.

He did what he liked with him. He made him dance according

to his whim. Mustiens head adjusted

itself to the cap of Faucheleverts will.

Fochlevers confidence was perfect

at the moment. When the convoy entered the avenue leading to the

cemetery, Fauchelevert glanced cheerfully at the hearse and

said half aloud as.

>> Brie Carlisle: He rubbed his big hands, heres a fine

farce.

>> Brie Carlisle: All at once the hearse halted. It had reached the

gate. The permission for interment must be

exhibited. The undertakers man addressed

himself to the porter of the cemetery.

During this colloquy, which always is productive

of a delay of from one to two minutes

someone, a stranger, came and placed himself

behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevert. He

was a sort of laboring man who wore a

waistcoat with large pockets and carried a mattock under his

arm. Fauchelevert surveyed the

stranger. Who are you? He

demanded. The, man, replied.

>> Brie Carlisle: The gravedigger.

>> Brie Carlisle: If a man could survive the blow of a cannonball full in the

breast, he would make the same face that foch lavert

made.

>> Brie Carlisle: The gravedigger?

>> Brie Carlisle: Yes, you.

>> Brie Carlisle: I.

>> Brie Carlisle: Father Mestian is the gravedigger.

He was what

he was.

>> Brie Carlisle: He is dead.

>> Brie Carlisle: Fauchelevert had expected anything but this,

that a gravedigger could die. It is true,

nevertheless, that gravediggers do die themselves

by dint of excavating graves for other people. One

hollows out ones own. Fauchelevert

stood there with his mouth wide open. He had hardly the

strength to stammer.

>> Brie Carlisle: But it is not possible.

>> Brie Carlisle: It is so.

>> Brie Carlisle: But, he persisted feebly,

Father Mestine is.

>> Brie Carlisle: The gravedigger after Napoleon, Louis

XVIII after Mastin

Gribiere. Peasant. My name is

Gribier.

>> Brie Carlisle: Fauchelevert, who was deadly pale, stared at this

gribier. He was a tall, thin,

livid, utterly funereal man. He had

the air of an unsuccessful doctor who had turned

gravedigger. Hochulvert burst out

laughing.

>> Brie Carlisle: Ah, said he, what queer things do

happen. Father Mestine is dead. But long

live little Father Lenoir. Do you know who

little Father Lenoir is? He is a jug of red

wine. It is a jug of siren

Morbigot, a real Paris seraine.

Ah, So old mestine is dead. Im m sorry

for it. He was a jolly fellow. But you

are a jolly fellow too, are you not,

comrade? Well, go and have a drink together.

>> Brie Carlisle: Presently, the man replied,

ive been a student.

>> Brie Carlisle: I passed my fourth examination. I never

drink.

>> Brie Carlisle: The hearse had set out again and was rolling up the grand alley of the

cemetery. Fauchelevert had slackened his

pace. He limped more out of anxiety than

from infirmity. A gravedigger walked on in

front of him. Poshlevert passed the unexpected

gribier once more in review. He was one of

those men who, though ah, very young, have

the air of age, and who, though slender, are

extremely strong.

>> Brie Carlisle: Comrade.

>> Brie Carlisle: Cried Fauchelevert. The man turned

round.

>> Brie Carlisle: I am m the convent gravedigger,

my.

>> Brie Carlisle: Colleague, said the man.

Fauchelevert, who was literate but very sharp,

understood that he had to deal with a formidable species of man.

With a fine talker, he muttered.

>> Brie Carlisle: So Father mestine is dead, the

man replied completely.

>> Brie Carlisle: The good God consulted his notebook, which shows when the time is

up. It was Father messtiens turn.

>> Brie Carlisle: Father Mestine died, Hochelever

repeated mechanically, the good

God. The good God, said the man

authoritatively.

>> Brie Carlisle: According to the philosophers, the eternal father.

According to the Jacobins, the supreme being.

>> Brie Carlisle: Shall we not make each others acquaintance?

>> Brie Carlisle: Stammered Fauchelevert.

>> Brie Carlisle: It is made. You are a

peasant. I am, a Parisian.

>> Brie Carlisle: People do not know each other until they have drunk together.

He who empties his glass empties his heart.

You must come and have a drink with me. Such a thing

cannot be refused.

>> Brie Carlisle: Business first, Fauchelevert

thought. I am lost. They were only

a few turns of the wheel. Distant from the small alley leading to the

nuns corner, the gravedigger resumed,

peasant.

>> Brie Carlisle: I have seven small children who must be fed as

they must eat. I cannot drink.

>> Brie Carlisle: And he added, with the satisfaction of a serious man who is

turning a.

>> Brie Carlisle: Phrase, well, their hunger is the enemy of

my thirst.

>> Brie Carlisle: The hearse skirted a clump of cypress trees,

quitted the grand alley, turned into a narrow one,

entered the wasteland, and plunged into a thicket.

This indicated the immediate proximity of the place of the

sepulture. Fauchelevert 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 gravedigger.

>> Brie Carlisle: They have such a nice little Argentia wine,

murmured Fauchelevert.

>> Brie Carlisle: Villager, retorted the man, I

ought not be a gravedigger. My father was a

porter at the Parentiam 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.

>> Brie Carlisle: So you are not a gravedigger.

>> Brie Carlisle: Then, returned Fauchelevert, clutching at this

branch, feeble as it was.

>> Brie Carlisle: One does not hinder the other. I

cumulate.

>> Brie Carlisle: Fauchelevert did not understand this last word.

>> Brie Carlisle: Come have a drink, said he.

>> Brie Carlisle: Here a remark becomes necessary.

Fauchelevert, whatever his anguish, offered a drink.

But he did not explain himself. On one point.

Who was to pay? Generally,

Fauchelevert offered, and Father masstiern paid.

An offer of a drink was the evident result of the novel situation

created by the new gravedigger, and it was necessary

to make this offer. But the old gardener left

the proverbial quarter of an hour, named after Rabilis in the

dark, and that not

unintentionally, as for himself,

Fauchelevert did not wish to pay. Troubled as he was,

the gravedigger went on with a superior smile,

one must eat.

>> Brie Carlisle: I have accepted, Father. Messians aversion.

One gets to be a philosopher when one has nearly completed

his classes. To the labor of the hand, I join

the labor of the arm. I have my scriveners stall in the

market of the rue de service. You know, the umbrella

market. All the cooks of the red cross apply to

me. I scribble their declarations of love to the

raw soldiers. In the morning I write love

letters. In the evening I dig graves such

as life rustic.

>> Brie Carlisle: The hearse was still advancing.

Fauchelevert, uneasy to the last degree, was gazing

about him on all sides. Great drops of

perspiration trickled down from his brow,

but, continued, the gravedigger,

>> Brie Carlisle: A man cannot serve two mistresses. I must choose

between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is

ruining my hand.

>> Brie Carlisle: Hers halted. The choir boy alighted from the

morning coach, then the priest.

One of the small front wheels of the hearse, had run up a little on a

pile of earth beyond which an open grave was visible.

What a farce this is, repeated

Fauchelevert in consternation.

Thank you for joining bite at a time books today while we

read a.

>> Brie Carlisle: Bite of one of your favorite classics.

>> Brie Carlisle: Again, my name is Bre Carlisle, and

I hope you come back tomorrow, for the next bite of

Les Miserables.

>> Brie Carlisle: Dont forget to sign up for our

newsletter@byteoutimebooks.com, comma, and

check out the shop. You can check out the show notes

or our website, byteadatimebooks.com,

for the rest of the links for our show. wed love to hear from you

on social media as well.

>> Brie Carlisle: Many adventures and mountains

we can climb.

Take your words forward, line by

line, one bite at a time.