________________________________________________
_ The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had
the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question,
"Have you anything to add to your defence?"
The man did not appear to understand, as he stood there,
twisting in his hands a terrible cap which he had.
The President repeated the question.
This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made
a motion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him,
stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court,
laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench,
took another look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the
district-attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption.
It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth,--
incoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other,--
as though they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once.
He said:--
"This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright in Paris,
and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade.
In the wheelwright's trade one works always in the open air,
in courtyards, under sheds when the masters are good, never in
closed workshops, because space is required, you see. In winter
one gets so cold that one beats one's arms together to warm
one's self; but the masters don't like it; they say it wastes time.
Handling iron when there is ice between the paving-stones is hard work.
That wears a man out quickly One is old while he is still quite young
in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty-three. I
was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean! When a man is
no longer young, they call him nothing but an old bird, old beast!
I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. They paid me
as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my age--
and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river.
She earned a little also. It sufficed for us two. She had trouble,
also; all day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow.
When the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same;
you must still wash. There are people who have not much linen,
and wait until late; if you do not wash, you lose your custom.
The planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from everywhere;
you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates.
She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants-Rouges, where
the water comes through faucets. You are not in the tub there;
you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in a basin
behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold; but there
is that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes.
She came home at seven o'clock in the evening, and went to bed
at once, she was so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead.
We have not been very happy. She was a good girl, who did not go
to the ball, and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tuesday
when she went to bed at eight o'clock. There, I am telling the truth;
you have only to ask. Ah, yes! how stupid I am! Paris is a gulf.
Who knows Father Champmathieu there? But M. Baloup does, I tell you.
Go see at M. Baloup's; and after all, I don't know what is wanted of
me."
The man ceased speaking, and remained standing. He had said these
things in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and
savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute some one in the crowd.
The sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him
at random came like hiccoughs, and to each he added the gesture
of a wood-cutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished,
the audience burst into a laugh. He stared at the public, and,
perceiving that they were laughing, and not understanding why,
he began to laugh himself.
It was inauspicious.
The President, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his voice.
He reminded "the gentlemen of the jury" that "the sieur Baloup,
formerly a master-wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he
had served, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt,
and was not to be found." Then turning to the accused, he enjoined
him to listen to what he was about to say, and added: "You are in
a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions
rest upon you, and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your
own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself
clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not
climb the wall of the Pierron orchard, break the branch, and steal
the apples; that is to say, commit the crime of breaking in and theft?
In the second place, are you the discharged convict, Jean Valjean--
yes or no?"
The prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has
thoroughly understood, and who knows what answer he is going to make.
He opened his mouth, turned towards the President, and said:--
"In the first place--"
Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.
"Prisoner," said the district-attorney, in a severe voice;
"pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been
asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident
that your name is not Champmathieu; that you are the convict,
Jean Valjean, concealed first under the name of Jean Mathieu,
which was the name of his mother; that you went to Auvergne;
that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees.
It is evident that you have been guilty of entering, and of the theft
of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury
will form their own opinion."
The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly
when the district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed:--
"You are very wicked; that you are! This what I wanted to say;
I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing.
I am a man who does not have something to eat every day.
I was coming from Ailly; I was walking through the country after
a shower, which had made the whole country yellow: even the ponds
were overflowed, and nothing sprang from the sand any more but
the little blades of grass at the wayside. I found a broken
branch with apples on the ground; I picked up the branch without
knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison,
and they have been dragging me about for the last three months;
more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell me,
`Answer!' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow,
and says to me in a low voice, `Come, answer!' I don't know how
to explain; I have no education; I am a poor man; that is where
they wrong me, because they do not see this. I have not stolen;
I picked up from the ground things that were lying there.
You say, Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu! I don't know those persons;
they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de l'Hopital;
my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I
was born; I don't know myself: it's not everybody who has a house
in which to come into the world; that would be too convenient.
I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along
the highways; I know nothing different. When I was a child,
they called me young fellow; now they call me old fellow; those are
my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne;
I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! can't a man have been
in Auvergne, or at Faverolles, without having been in the galleys?
I tell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu;
I have been with M. Baloup; I have had a settled residence.
You worry me with your nonsense, there! Why is everybody pursuing me so
furiously?"
The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President:--
"Monsieur le President, in view of the confused but exceedingly
clever denials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself
off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing,--
we shall attend to that,--we demand that it shall please you
and that it shall please the court to summon once more into
this place the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenildieu,
and Police-Inspector Javert, and question them for the last
time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean."
"I would remind the district-attorney," said the President,
"that Police-Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital
of a neighboring arrondissement, left the court-room and the town
as soon as he had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission,
with the consent of the district-attorney and of the counsel
for the prisoner."
"That is true, Mr. President," responded the district-attorney.
"In the absence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind
the gentlemen of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago.
Javert is an estimable man, who does honor by his rigorous and strict
probity to inferior but important functions. These are the terms
of his deposition: `I do not even stand in need of circumstantial
proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisoner's denial.
I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champmathieu;
he is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and is very vicious and much
to be feared. It is only with extreme regret that he was released
at the expiration of his term. He underwent nineteen years of penal
servitude for theft. He made five or six attempts to escape.
Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from the Pierron orchard,
I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of His Grace the late
Bishop of D---- I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of
the galley-guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I recognize
him perfectly.'"
This extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid
impression on the public and on the jury. The district-attorney
concluded by insisting, that in default of Javert, the three
witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille should be heard
once more and solemnly interrogated.
The President transmitted the order to an usher, and, a moment
later, the door of the witnesses' room opened. The usher,
accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him armed assistance,
introduced the convict Brevet. The audience was in suspense;
and all breasts heaved as though they had contained but one soul.
The ex-convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of
the central prisons. Brevet was a person sixty years of age,
who had a sort of business man's face, and the air of a rascal.
The two sometimes go together. In prison, whither fresh misdeeds
had led him, he had become something in the nature of a turnkey.
He was a man of whom his superiors said, "He tries to make himself
of use." The chaplains bore good testimony as to his religious habits.
It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration.
"Brevet," said the President, "you have undergone an ignominious
sentence, and you cannot take an oath."
Brevet dropped his eyes.
"Nevertheless," continued the President, "even in the man whom
the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy
permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this
sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour. If it still exists
in you,--and I hope it does,--reflect before replying to me:
consider on the one hand, this man, whom a word from you may ruin;
on the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten.
The instant is solemn; there is still time to retract if you think
you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look
at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on your soul
and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former
companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?"
Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court.
"Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it;
that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left
in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now; but it
must be because age has brutalized him; he was sly at the galleys:
I recognize him positively."
"Take your seat," said the President. "Prisoner, remain standing."
Chenildieu was brought in, a prisoner for life, as was indicated
by his red cassock and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence
at the galleys of Toulon, whence he had been brought for this case.
He was a small man of about fifty, brisk, wrinkled, frail, yellow,
brazen-faced, feverish, who had a sort of sickly feebleness about all
his limbs and his whole person, and an immense force in his glance.
His companions in the galleys had nicknamed him I-deny-God (Je-nie Dieu,
Chenildieu).
The President addressed him in nearly the same words which he had
used to Brevet. At the moment when he reminded him of his infamy
which deprived him of the right to take an oath, Chenildieu raised
his head and looked the crowd in the face. The President invited
him to reflection, and asked him as he had asked Brevet, if he
persisted in recognition of the prisoner.
Chenildieu burst out laughing.
"Pardieu, as if I didn't recognize him! We were attached to the
same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow?"
"Go take your seat," said the President.
The usher brought in Cochepaille. He was another convict for life,
who had come from the galleys, and was dressed in red, like Chenildieu,
was a peasant from Lourdes, and a half-bear of the Pyrenees.
He had guarded the flocks among the mountains, and from a shepherd
he had slipped into a brigand. Cochepaille was no less savage
and seemed even more stupid than the prisoner. He was one of
those wretched men whom nature has sketched out for wild beasts,
and on whom society puts the finishing touches as convicts in
the galleys.
The President tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words,
and asked him, as he had asked the other two, if he persisted,
without hesitation or trouble, in recognizing the man who was standing
before him.
"He is Jean Valjean," said Cochepaille. "He was even called
Jean-the-Screw, because he was so strong."
Each of these affirmations from these three men, evidently sincere
and in good faith, had raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury
for the prisoner,--a murmur which increased and lasted longer
each time that a fresh declaration was added to the proceeding.
The prisoner had listened to them, with that astounded face which was,
according to the accusation, his principal means of defence;
at the first, the gendarmes, his neighbors, had heard him mutter between
his teeth: "Ah, well, he's a nice one!" after the second, he said,
a little louder, with an air that was almost that of satisfaction,
"Good!" at the third, he cried, "Famous!"
The President addressed him:--
"Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?"
He replied:--
"I say, `Famous!'"
An uproar broke out among the audience, and was communicated
to the jury; it was evident that the man was lost.
"Ushers," said the President, "enforce silence! I am going to sum
up the arguments."
At that moment there was a movement just beside the President;
a voice was heard crying:--
"Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!"
All who heard that voice were chilled, so lamentable and terrible
was it; all eyes were turned to the point whence it had proceeded.
A man, placed among the privileged spectators who were seated behind
the court, had just risen, had pushed open the half-door which separated
the tribunal from the audience, and was standing in the middle
of the hall; the President, the district-attorney, M. Bamatabois,
twenty persons, recognized him, and exclaimed in concert:--
"M. Madeleine!" _
Read next: VOLUME I - FANTINE: BOOK SEVENTH - THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR: CHAPTER XI. Champmathieu more and more Astonished
Read previous: VOLUME I - FANTINE: BOOK SEVENTH - THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR: CHAPTER IX. A Place where Convictions are in Process of Formation
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