Editing Volume 1/Book 7/Chapter 10

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 1: Fantine, Book Seventh: The Champmathieu Affair, Chapter 10: The System of Denials<br />
(Tome 1: Fantine, Livre septi&egrave;me: L'affaire Champmathieu, Chapitre 10: Le syst&egrave;me de d&eacute;n&eacute;gations)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
L'instant de clore les d&eacute;bats &eacute;tait venu. Le pr&eacute;sident fit lever
l'accus&eacute; et lui adressa la question d'usage:

 
&mdash;Avez-vous quelque chose &agrave; ajouter &agrave; votre d&eacute;fense?

 
L'homme, debout, roulant dans ses mains un affreux bonnet qu'il avait,
sembla ne pas entendre.

 
Le pr&eacute;sident r&eacute;p&eacute;ta la question.

 
Cette fois l'homme entendit. Il parut comprendre, il fit le mouvement de
quelqu'un qui se r&eacute;veille, promena ses yeux autour de lui, regarda le
public, les gendarmes, son avocat, les jur&eacute;s, la cour, posa son poing
monstrueux sur le rebord de la boiserie plac&eacute;e devant son banc, regarda
encore, et tout &agrave; coup, fixant sont regard sur l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral, il se
mit &agrave; parler. Ce fut comme une &eacute;ruption. Il sembla, &agrave; la fa&ccedil;on dont les
paroles s'&eacute;chappaient de sa bouche, incoh&eacute;rentes, imp&eacute;tueuses, heurt&eacute;es,
p&ecirc;le-m&ecirc;le, qu'elles s'y pressaient toutes &agrave; la fois pour sortir en m&ecirc;me
temps. Il dit:

 
&mdash;J'ai &agrave; dire &ccedil;a. Que j'ai &eacute;t&eacute; charron &agrave; Paris, m&ecirc;me que c'&eacute;tait chez
monsieur Baloup. C'est un &eacute;tat dur. Dans la chose de charron, on
travaille toujours en plein air, dans des cours, sous des hangars chez
les bons ma&icirc;tres, jamais dans des ateliers ferm&eacute;s, parce qu'il faut des
espaces, voyez-vous. L'hiver, on a si froid qu'on se bat les bras pour
se r&eacute;chauffer; mais les ma&icirc;tres ne veulent pas, ils disent que cela perd
du temps. Manier du fer quand il y a de la glace entre les pav&eacute;s, c'est
rude. &Ccedil;a vous use vite un homme. On est vieux tout jeune dans cet
&eacute;tat-l&agrave;. &Agrave; quarante ans, un homme est fini. Moi, j'en avais
cinquante-trois, j'avais bien du mal. Et puis c'est si m&eacute;chant les
ouvriers! Quand un bonhomme n'est plus jeune, on vous l'appelle pour
tout vieux serin, vieille b&ecirc;te! Je ne gagnais plus que trente sous par
jour, on me payait le moins cher qu'on pouvait, les ma&icirc;tres profitaient
de mon &acirc;ge. Avec &ccedil;a, j'avais ma fille qui &eacute;tait blanchisseuse &agrave; la
rivi&egrave;re. Elle gagnait un peu de son c&ocirc;t&eacute;. &Agrave; nous deux, cela allait. Elle
avait de la peine aussi. Toute la journ&eacute;e dans un baquet jusqu'&agrave;
mi-corps, &agrave; la pluie, &agrave; la neige, avec le vent qui vous coupe la figure;
quand il g&egrave;le, c'est tout de m&ecirc;me, il faut laver; il y a des personnes
qui n'ont pas beaucoup de linge et qui attendent apr&egrave;s; si on ne lavait
pas, on perdrait des pratiques. Les planches sont mal jointes et il vous
tombe des gouttes d'eau partout. On a ses jupes toutes mouill&eacute;es, dessus
et dessous. &Ccedil;a p&eacute;n&egrave;tre. Elle a aussi travaill&eacute; au lavoir des
Enfants-Rouges, o&ugrave; l'eau arrive par des robinets. On n'est pas dans le
baquet. On lave devant soi au robinet et on rince derri&egrave;re soi dans le
bassin. Comme c'est ferm&eacute;, on a moins froid au corps. Mais il y a une
bu&eacute;e d'eau chaude qui est terrible et qui vous perd les yeux. Elle
revenait &agrave; sept heures du soir, et se couchait bien vite; elle &eacute;tait si
fatigu&eacute;e. Son mari la battait. Elle est morte. Nous n'avons pas &eacute;t&eacute; bien
heureux. C'&eacute;tait une brave fille qui n'allait pas au bal, qui &eacute;tait bien
tranquille. Je me rappelle un mardi gras o&ugrave; elle &eacute;tait couch&eacute;e &agrave; huit
heures. Voil&agrave;. Je dis vrai. Vous n'avez qu'&agrave; demander. Ah, bien oui,
demander! que je suis b&ecirc;te! Paris, c'est un gouffre. Qui est-ce qui
conna&icirc;t le p&egrave;re Champmathieu? Pourtant je vous dis monsieur Baloup.
Voyez chez monsieur Baloup. Apr&egrave;s &ccedil;a, je ne sais pas ce qu'on me veut.

 
L'homme se tut, et resta debout. Il avait dit ces choses d'une voix
haute, rapide, rauque, dure et enrou&eacute;e, avec une sorte de na&iuml;vet&eacute;
irrit&eacute;e et sauvage. Une fois il s'&eacute;tait interrompu pour saluer quelqu'un
dans la foule. Les esp&egrave;ces d'affirmations qu'il semblait jeter au hasard
devant lui, lui venaient comme des hoquets, et il ajoutait &agrave; chacune
d'elles le geste d'un b&ucirc;cheron qui fend du bois. Quand il eut fini,
l'auditoire &eacute;clata de rire. Il regarda le public, et voyant qu'on riait,
et ne comprenant pas, il se mit &agrave; rire lui-m&ecirc;me.

 
Cela &eacute;tait sinistre.

 
Le pr&eacute;sident, homme attentif et bienveillant, &eacute;leva la voix.

 
Il rappela &agrave; &laquo;messieurs les jur&eacute;s&raquo; que &laquo;le sieur Baloup, l'ancien ma&icirc;tre
charron chez lequel l'accus&eacute; disait avoir servi, avait &eacute;t&eacute; inutilement
cit&eacute;. Il &eacute;tait en faillite, et n'avait pu &ecirc;tre retrouv&eacute;.&raquo; Puis se
tournant vers l'accus&eacute;, il l'engagea &agrave; &eacute;couter ce qu'il allait lui dire
et ajouta:

 
&mdash;Vous &ecirc;tes dans une situation o&ugrave; il faut r&eacute;fl&eacute;chir. Les pr&eacute;somptions
les plus graves p&egrave;sent sur vous et peuvent entra&icirc;ner des cons&eacute;quences
capitales. Accus&eacute;, dans votre int&eacute;r&ecirc;t, je vous interpelle une derni&egrave;re
fois, expliquez-vous clairement sur ces deux faits:&mdash;Premi&egrave;rement,
avez-vous, oui ou non, franchi le mur du clos Pierron, cass&eacute; la branche
et vol&eacute; les pommes, c'est-&agrave;-dire commis le crime de vol avec escalade?
Deuxi&egrave;mement, oui ou non, &ecirc;tes-vous le for&ccedil;at lib&eacute;r&eacute; Jean Valjean?

 
L'accus&eacute; secoua la t&ecirc;te d'un air capable, comme un homme qui a bien
compris et qui sait ce qu'il va r&eacute;pondre. Il ouvrit la bouche, se tourna
vers le pr&eacute;sident et dit:

 
&mdash;D'abord....

 
Puis il regarda son bonnet, il regarda le plafond, et se tut.

 
&mdash;Accus&eacute;, reprit l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral d'une voix s&eacute;v&egrave;re, faites attention.
Vous ne r&eacute;pondez &agrave; rien de ce qu'on vous demande. Votre trouble vous
condamne. Il est &eacute;vident que vous ne vous appelez pas Champmathieu, que
vous &ecirc;tes le for&ccedil;at Jean Valjean cach&eacute; d'abord sous le nom de Jean
Mathieu qui &eacute;tait le nom de sa m&egrave;re, que vous &ecirc;tes all&eacute; en Auvergne, que
vous &ecirc;tes n&eacute; &agrave; Faverolles o&ugrave; vous avez &eacute;t&eacute; &eacute;mondeur. Il est &eacute;vident que
vous avez vol&eacute; avec escalade des pommes m&ucirc;res dans le clos Pierron.
Messieurs les jur&eacute;s appr&eacute;cieront.

 
L'accus&eacute; avait fini par se rasseoir; il se leva brusquement quand
l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral eut fini, et s'&eacute;cria:

 
&mdash;Vous &ecirc;tes tr&egrave;s m&eacute;chant, vous! Voil&agrave; ce que je voulais dire. Je ne
trouvais pas d'abord. Je n'ai rien vol&eacute;. Je suis un homme qui ne mange
pas tous les jours. Je venais d'Ailly, je marchais dans le pays apr&egrave;s
une ond&eacute;e qui avait fait la campagne toute jaune, m&ecirc;me que les mares
d&eacute;bordaient et qu'il ne sortait plus des sables que de petits brins
d'herbe au bord de la route, j'ai trouv&eacute; une branche cass&eacute;e par terre o&ugrave;
il y avait des pommes, j'ai ramass&eacute; la branche sans savoir qu'elle me
ferait arriver de la peine. Il y a trois mois que je suis en prison et
qu'on me trimballe. Apr&egrave;s &ccedil;a, je ne peux pas dire, on parle contre moi,
on me dit: r&eacute;pondez! le gendarme, qui est bon enfant, me pousse le coude
et me dit tout bas: r&eacute;ponds donc. Je ne sais pas expliquer, moi, je n'ai
pas fait les &eacute;tudes, je suis un pauvre homme. Voil&agrave; ce qu'on a tort de
ne pas voir. Je n'ai pas vol&eacute;, j'ai ramass&eacute; par terre des choses qu'il y
avait. Vous dites Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu! Je ne connais pas ces
personnes-l&agrave;. C'est des villageois. J'ai travaill&eacute; chez monsieur Baloup,
boulevard de l'H&ocirc;pital. Je m'appelle Champmathieu. Vous &ecirc;tes bien malins
de me dire o&ugrave; je suis n&eacute;. Moi, je l'ignore. Tout le monde n'a pas des
maisons pour y venir au monde. Ce serait trop commode. Je crois que mon
p&egrave;re et ma m&egrave;re &eacute;taient des gens qui allaient sur les routes. Je ne sais
pas d'ailleurs. Quand j'&eacute;tais enfant, on m'appelait Petit, maintenant,
on m'appelle Vieux. Voil&agrave; mes noms de bapt&ecirc;me. Prenez &ccedil;a comme vous
voudrez. J'ai &eacute;t&eacute; en Auvergne, j'ai &eacute;t&eacute; &agrave; Faverolles, pardi! Eh bien?
est-ce qu'on ne peut pas avoir &eacute;t&eacute; en Auvergne et avoir &eacute;t&eacute; &agrave; Faverolles
sans avoir &eacute;t&eacute; aux gal&egrave;res? Je vous dis que je n'ai pas vol&eacute;, et que je
suis le p&egrave;re Champmathieu. J'ai &eacute;t&eacute; chez monsieur Baloup, j'ai &eacute;t&eacute;
domicili&eacute;. Vous m'ennuyez avec vos b&ecirc;tises &agrave; la fin! Pourquoi donc
est-ce que le monde est apr&egrave;s moi comme des acharn&eacute;s!

 
L'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral &eacute;tait demeur&eacute; debout; il s'adressa au pr&eacute;sident:

 
&mdash;Monsieur le pr&eacute;sident, en pr&eacute;sence des d&eacute;n&eacute;gations confuses, mais fort
habiles de l'accus&eacute;, qui voudrait bien se faire passer pour idiot, mais
qui n'y parviendra pas&mdash;nous l'en pr&eacute;venons&mdash;nous requ&eacute;rons qu'il vous
plaise et qu'il plaise &agrave; la cour appeler de nouveau dans cette enceinte
les condamn&eacute;s Brevet, Cochepaille et Chenildieu et l'inspecteur de
police Javert, et les interpeller une derni&egrave;re fois sur l'identit&eacute; de
l'accus&eacute; avec le for&ccedil;at Jean Valjean.

 
&mdash;Je fais remarquer &agrave; monsieur l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral, dit le pr&eacute;sident, que
l'inspecteur de police Javert, rappel&eacute; par ses fonctions au chef-lieu
d'un arrondissement voisin, a quitt&eacute; l'audience et m&ecirc;me la ville,
aussit&ocirc;t sa d&eacute;position faite. Nous lui en avons accord&eacute; l'autorisation,
avec l'agr&eacute;ment de monsieur l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral et du d&eacute;fenseur de
l'accus&eacute;.

 
&mdash;C'est juste, monsieur le pr&eacute;sident, reprit l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral. En
l'absence du sieur Javert, je crois devoir rappeler &agrave; messieurs les
jur&eacute;s ce qu'il a dit ici-m&ecirc;me, il y a peu d'heures. Javert est un homme
estim&eacute; qui honore par sa rigoureuse et stricte probit&eacute; des fonctions
inf&eacute;rieures, mais importantes. Voici en quels termes il a d&eacute;pos&eacute;:&mdash;&laquo;Je
n'ai pas m&ecirc;me besoin des pr&eacute;somptions morales et des preuves mat&eacute;rielles
qui d&eacute;mentent les d&eacute;n&eacute;gations de l'accus&eacute;. Je le reconnais parfaitement.
Cet homme ne s'appelle pas Champmathieu; c'est un ancien for&ccedil;at tr&egrave;s
m&eacute;chant et tr&egrave;s redout&eacute; nomm&eacute; Jean Valjean. On ne l'a lib&eacute;r&eacute; &agrave;
l'expiration de sa peine qu'avec un extr&ecirc;me regret. Il a subi dix-neuf
ans de travaux forc&eacute;s pour vol qualifi&eacute;. Il avait cinq ou six fois tent&eacute;
de s'&eacute;vader. Outre le vol Petit-Gervais et le vol Pierron, je le
soup&ccedil;onne encore d'un vol commis chez sa grandeur le d&eacute;funt &eacute;v&ecirc;que de
Digne. Je l'ai souvent vu, &agrave; l'&eacute;poque o&ugrave; j'&eacute;tais adjudant garde-chiourme
au bagne de Toulon. Je r&eacute;p&egrave;te que je le reconnais parfaitement.&raquo; Cette
d&eacute;claration si pr&eacute;cise parut produire une vive impression sur le public
et le jury. L'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral termina en insistant pour qu'&agrave; d&eacute;faut de
Javert, les trois t&eacute;moins Brevet, Chenildieu et Cochepaille fussent
entendus de nouveau et interpell&eacute;s solennellement.

 
Le pr&eacute;sident transmit un ordre &agrave; un huissier, et un moment apr&egrave;s la
porte de la chambre des t&eacute;moins s'ouvrit. L'huissier, accompagn&eacute; d'un
gendarme pr&ecirc;t &agrave; lui pr&ecirc;ter main-forte, introduisit le condamn&eacute; Brevet.
L'auditoire &eacute;tait en suspens et toutes les poitrines palpitaient comme
si elles n'eussent eu qu'une seule &acirc;me.

 
L'ancien for&ccedil;at Brevet portait la veste noire et grise des maisons
centrales. Brevet &eacute;tait un personnage d'une soixantaine d'ann&eacute;es qui
avait une esp&egrave;ce de figure d'homme d'affaires et l'air d'un coquin. Cela
va quelquefois ensemble. Il &eacute;tait devenu, dans la prison o&ugrave; de nouveaux
m&eacute;faits l'avaient ramen&eacute;, quelque chose comme guichetier. C'&eacute;tait un
homme dont les chefs disaient: Il cherche &agrave; se rendre utile. Les
aum&ocirc;niers portaient bon t&eacute;moignage de ses habitudes religieuses. Il ne
faut pas oublier que ceci se passait sous la restauration.

 
&mdash;Brevet, dit le pr&eacute;sident, vous avez subi une condamnation infamante et
vous ne pouvez pr&ecirc;ter serment....

 
Brevet baissa les yeux.

 
&mdash;Cependant, reprit le pr&eacute;sident, m&ecirc;me dans l'homme que la loi a
d&eacute;grad&eacute;, il peut rester, quand la piti&eacute; divine le permet, un sentiment
d'honneur et d'&eacute;quit&eacute;. C'est &agrave; ce sentiment que je fais appel &agrave; cette
heure d&eacute;cisive. S'il existe encore en vous, et je l'esp&egrave;re, r&eacute;fl&eacute;chissez
avant de me r&eacute;pondre, consid&eacute;rez d'une part cet homme qu'un mot de vous
peut perdre, d'autre part la justice qu'un mot de vous peut &eacute;clairer.
L'instant est solennel, et il est toujours temps de vous r&eacute;tracter, si
vous croyez vous &ecirc;tre tromp&eacute;.&mdash;Accus&eacute;, levez-vous.

 
&mdash;Brevet, regardez bien l'accus&eacute;, recueillez vos souvenirs, et
dites-nous, en votre &acirc;me et conscience, si vous persistez &agrave; reconna&icirc;tre
cet homme pour votre ancien camarade de bagne Jean Valjean.

 
Brevet regarda l'accus&eacute;, puis se retourna vers la cour.

 
&mdash;Oui, monsieur le pr&eacute;sident. C'est moi qui l'ai reconnu le premier et
je persiste. Cet homme est Jean Valjean. Entr&eacute; &agrave; Toulon en 1796 et sorti
en 1815. Je suis sorti l'an d'apr&egrave;s. Il a l'air d'une brute maintenant,
alors ce serait que l'&acirc;ge l'a abruti; au bagne il &eacute;tait sournois. Je le
reconnais positivement.

 
&mdash;Allez vous asseoir, dit le pr&eacute;sident. Accus&eacute;, restez debout.

 
On introduisit Chenildieu, for&ccedil;at &agrave; vie, comme l'indiquaient sa casaque
rouge et son bonnet vert. Il subissait sa peine au bagne de Toulon, d'o&ugrave;
on l'avait extrait pour cette affaire. C'&eacute;tait un petit homme d'environ
cinquante ans, vif, rid&eacute;, ch&eacute;tif, jaune, effront&eacute;, fi&eacute;vreux, qui avait
dans tous ses membres et dans toute sa personne une sorte de faiblesse
maladive et dans le regard une force immense. Ses compagnons du bagne
l'avaient surnomm&eacute; Je-nie-Dieu.

 
Le pr&eacute;sident lui adressa &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s les m&ecirc;mes paroles qu'&agrave; Brevet. Au
moment o&ugrave; il lui rappela que son infamie lui &ocirc;tait le droit de pr&ecirc;ter
serment, Chenildieu leva la t&ecirc;te et regarda la foule en face. Le
pr&eacute;sident l'invita &agrave; se recueillir et lui demanda, comme &agrave; Brevet, s'il
persistait &agrave; reconna&icirc;tre l'accus&eacute;.

 
Chenildieu &eacute;clata de rire.

 
&mdash;Pardine! si je le reconnais! nous avons &eacute;t&eacute; cinq ans attach&eacute;s &agrave; la
m&ecirc;me cha&icirc;ne. Tu boudes donc, mon vieux?

 
&mdash;Allez vous asseoir, dit le pr&eacute;sident.

 
L'huissier amena Cochepaille. Cet autre condamn&eacute; &agrave; perp&eacute;tuit&eacute;, venu du
bagne et v&ecirc;tu de rouge comme Chenildieu, &eacute;tait un paysan de Lourdes et
un demi-ours des Pyr&eacute;n&eacute;es. Il avait gard&eacute; des troupeaux dans la
montagne, et de p&acirc;tre il avait gliss&eacute; brigand. Cochepaille n'&eacute;tait pas
moins sauvage et paraissait plus stupide encore que l'accus&eacute;. C'&eacute;tait un
de ces malheureux hommes que la nature a &eacute;bauch&eacute;s en b&ecirc;tes fauves et que
la soci&eacute;t&eacute; termine en gal&eacute;riens.

 
Le pr&eacute;sident essaya de le remuer par quelques paroles path&eacute;tiques et
graves et lui demanda, comme aux deux autres, s'il persistait, sans
h&eacute;sitation et sans trouble, &agrave; reconna&icirc;tre l'homme debout devant lui.

 
&mdash;C'est Jean Valjean, dit Cochepaille. M&ecirc;me qu'on l'appelait
Jean-le-Cric, tant il &eacute;tait fort.

 
Chacune des affirmations de ces trois hommes, &eacute;videmment sinc&egrave;res et de
bonne foi, avait soulev&eacute; dans l'auditoire un murmure de f&acirc;cheux augure
pour l'accus&eacute;, murmure qui croissait et se prolongeait plus longtemps
chaque fois qu'une d&eacute;claration nouvelle venait s'ajouter &agrave; la
pr&eacute;c&eacute;dente. L'accus&eacute;, lui, les avait &eacute;cout&eacute;es avec ce visage &eacute;tonn&eacute; qui,
selon l'accusation, &eacute;tait son principal moyen de d&eacute;fense. &Agrave; la premi&egrave;re,
les gendarmes ses voisins l'avaient entendu grommeler entre ses dents:
Ah bien! en voil&agrave; un! Apr&egrave;s la seconde il dit un peu plus haut, d'un air
presque satisfait: Bon! &Agrave; la troisi&egrave;me il s'&eacute;cria: Fameux!

 
Le pr&eacute;sident l'interpella.

 
&mdash;Accus&eacute;, vous avez entendu. Qu'avez-vous &agrave; dire?

 
Il r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Je dis&mdash;Fameux!

 
Une rumeur &eacute;clata dans le public et gagna presque le jury. Il &eacute;tait
&eacute;vident que l'homme &eacute;tait perdu.

 
&mdash;Huissiers, dit le pr&eacute;sident, faites faire silence. Je vais clore les
d&eacute;bats.

 
En ce moment un mouvement se fit tout &agrave; c&ocirc;t&eacute; du pr&eacute;sident. On entendit
une voix qui criait:

 
&mdash;Brevet, Chenildieu, Cochepaille! regardez de ce c&ocirc;t&eacute;-ci.

 
Tous ceux qui entendirent cette voix se sentirent glac&eacute;s, tant elle
&eacute;tait lamentable et terrible. Les yeux se tourn&egrave;rent vers le point d'o&ugrave;
elle venait. Un homme, plac&eacute; parmi les spectateurs privil&eacute;gi&eacute;s qui
&eacute;taient assis derri&egrave;re la cour, venait de se lever, avait pouss&eacute; la
porte &agrave; hauteur d'appui qui s&eacute;parait le tribunal du pr&eacute;toire, et &eacute;tait
debout au milieu de la salle. Le pr&eacute;sident, l'avocat g&eacute;n&eacute;ral, M.
Bamatabois, vingt personnes, le reconnurent, et s'&eacute;cri&egrave;rent &agrave; la fois:

 
&mdash;Monsieur Madeleine!

 

==English text==

 
The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The Président 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 Président 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,&mdash;incoherent, impetuous,
pell-mell, tumbling over each other,&mdash;as though they were all
pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said:&mdash;

 
"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&mdash;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 Président, 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&mdash;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 Président, and said:&mdash;

 
"In the first place&mdash;"

 
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."

 
[[Enlarge]]

  [[Image:1b7-10-father-chapmathieuTH.jpg|Father Champmathieu on Trial ]]<br>  
The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly when the
district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed:&mdash;

 
"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 Président:&mdash;

 
"Monsieur le Président, 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,&mdash;we shall attend to that,&mdash;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 Président, "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. Président," 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&mdash;&mdash;
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 Président 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 Président, "you have undergone an ignominious sentence,
and you cannot take an oath."

 
Brevet dropped his eyes.

 
"Nevertheless," continued the Président, "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,&mdash;and I hope it does,&mdash;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. Président, 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 Président. "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 Président 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 Président 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 Président.

 
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 Président 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,&mdash;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 Président addressed him:&mdash;

 
"Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?"

 
He replied:&mdash;

 
"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 Président, "enforce silence! I am going to sum up the
arguments."

 
At that moment there was a movement just beside the Président; a voice was
heard crying:&mdash;

 
"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 Président, the
district-attorney, M. Bamatabois, twenty persons, recognized him, and
exclaimed in concert:&mdash;

 
"M. Madeleine!"



==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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