Kabanata Kabanata 55 · HOW JEAN MAY BECOME CHAMP

One morning M. Madeleine was in his study, occupied in arranging in

advance some pressing matters connected with the mayor’s office, in

case he should decide to take the trip to Montfermeil, when he was

informed that Police Inspector Javert was desirous of speaking with

him. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression on

hearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since the

affair of the police-station, and M. Madeleine had not seen him.

“Admit him,” he said.

Javert entered.

M. Madeleine had retained his seat near the fire, pen in hand, his eyes

fixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating, and which

contained the trials of the commission on highways for the infraction

of police regulations. He did not disturb himself on Javert’s account.

He could not help thinking of poor Fantine, and it suited him to be

glacial in his manner.

Javert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayor, whose back was turned

to him. The mayor did not look at him, but went on annotating this

docket.

Javert advanced two or three paces into the study, and halted, without

breaking the silence.

If any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert, and who had

made a lengthy study of this savage in the service of civilization,

this singular composite of the Roman, the Spartan, the monk, and the

corporal, this spy who was incapable of a lie, this unspotted police

agent—if any physiognomist had known his secret and long-cherished

aversion for M. Madeleine, his conflict with the mayor on the subject

of Fantine, and had examined Javert at that moment, he would have said

to himself, “What has taken place?” It was evident to any one

acquainted with that clear, upright, sincere, honest, austere, and

ferocious conscience, that Javert had but just gone through some great

interior struggle. Javert had nothing in his soul which he had not also

in his countenance. Like violent people in general, he was subject to

abrupt changes of opinion. His physiognomy had never been more peculiar

and startling. On entering he bowed to M. Madeleine with a look in

which there was neither rancor, anger, nor distrust; he halted a few

paces in the rear of the mayor’s armchair, and there he stood,

perfectly erect, in an attitude almost of discipline, with the cold,

ingenuous roughness of a man who has never been gentle and who has

always been patient; he waited without uttering a word, without making

a movement, in genuine humility and tranquil resignation, calm,

serious, hat in hand, with eyes cast down, and an expression which was

half-way between that of a soldier in the presence of his officer and a

criminal in the presence of his judge, until it should please the mayor

to turn round. All the sentiments as well as all the memories which one

might have attributed to him had disappeared. That face, as

impenetrable and simple as granite, no longer bore any trace of

anything but a melancholy depression. His whole person breathed

lowliness and firmness and an indescribable courageous despondency.

At last the mayor laid down his pen and turned half round.

“Well! What is it? What is the matter, Javert?”

Javert remained silent for an instant as though collecting his ideas,

then raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity, which did not,

however, preclude simplicity.

“This is the matter, Mr. Mayor; a culpable act has been committed.”

“What act?”

“An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect, and in the

gravest manner, towards a magistrate. I have come to bring the fact to

your knowledge, as it is my duty to do.”

“Who is the agent?” asked M. Madeleine.

“I,” said Javert.

“You?”

“I.”

“And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent?”

“You, Mr. Mayor.”

M. Madeleine sat erect in his armchair. Javert went on, with a severe

air and his eyes still cast down.

“Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to

dismiss me.”

M. Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Javert interrupted him:—

“You will say that I might have handed in my resignation, but that does

not suffice. Handing in one’s resignation is honorable. I have failed

in my duty; I ought to be punished; I must be turned out.”

And after a pause he added:—

“Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly. Be so

to-day, with justice.”

“Come, now! Why?” exclaimed M. Madeleine. “What nonsense is this? What

is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of

towards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs with regard

to me? You accuse yourself; you wish to be superseded—”

“Turned out,” said Javert.

“Turned out; so it be, then. That is well. I do not understand.”

“You shall understand, Mr. Mayor.”

Javert sighed from the very bottom of his chest, and resumed, still

coldly and sadly:—

“Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman,

I was furious, and I informed against you.”

“Informed against me!”

“At the Prefecture of Police in Paris.”

M. Madeleine, who was not in the habit of laughing much oftener than

Javert himself, burst out laughing now:—

“As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police?”

“As an ex-convict.”

The mayor turned livid.

Javert, who had not raised his eyes, went on:—

“I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time; a resemblance;

inquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverolles; the strength

of your loins; the adventure with old Fauchelevant; your skill in

marksmanship; your leg, which you drag a little;—I hardly know what

all,—absurdities! But, at all events, I took you for a certain Jean

Valjean.”

“A certain—What did you say the name was?”

“Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing

twenty years ago, when I was adjutant-guard of convicts at Toulon. On

leaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop;

then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence, on a public

highway on the person of a little Savoyard. He disappeared eight years

ago, no one knows how, and he has been sought, I fancied. In short, I

did this thing! Wrath impelled me; I denounced you at the Prefecture!”

M. Madeleine, who had taken up the docket again several moments before

this, resumed with an air of perfect indifference:—

“And what reply did you receive?”

“That I was mad.”

“Well?”

“Well, they were right.”

“It is lucky that you recognize the fact.”

“I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found.”

The sheet of paper which M. Madeleine was holding dropped from his

hand; he raised his head, gazed fixedly at Javert, and said with his

indescribable accent:—

“Ah!”

Javert continued:—

“This is the way it is, Mr. Mayor. It seems that there was in the

neighborhood near Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher an old fellow who was called

Father Champmathieu. He was a very wretched creature. No one paid any

attention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on. Lately,

last autumn, Father Champmathieu was arrested for the theft of some

cider apples from—Well, no matter, a theft had been committed, a wall

scaled, branches of trees broken. My Champmathieu was arrested. He

still had the branch of apple-tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up.

Up to this point it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is

where Providence intervened.

“The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it

convenient to transfer Champmathieu to Arras, where the departmental

prison is situated. In this prison at Arras there is an ex-convict

named Brevet, who is detained for I know not what, and who has been

appointed turnkey of the house, because of good behavior. Mr. Mayor, no

sooner had Champmathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims: ‘Eh! Why, I know

that man! He is a _fagot!_4 Take a good look at me, my good man! You

are Jean Valjean!’ ‘Jean Valjean! who’s Jean Valjean?’ Champmathieu

feigns astonishment. ‘Don’t play the innocent dodge,’ says Brevet. ‘You

are Jean Valjean! You have been in the galleys of Toulon; it was twenty

years ago; we were there together.’ Champmathieu denies it. Parbleu!

You understand. The case is investigated. The thing was well ventilated

for me. This is what they discovered: This Champmathieu had been,

thirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at

Faverolles. There all trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he

was seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have

been a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who was a laundress;

but that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for

theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles.

Another fact. This Valjean’s Christian name was Jean, and his mother’s

surname was Mathieu. What more natural to suppose than that, on

emerging from the galleys, he should have taken his mother’s name for

the purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean

Mathieu? He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns _Jean_ into

_Chan_—he is called Chan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition, and

behold him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me, do you not?

Inquiries were made at Faverolles. The family of Jean Valjean is no

longer there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among

those classes a family often disappears. Search was made, and nothing

was found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as

the beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer

any one at Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at

Toulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who

have seen Jean Valjean; they are Cochepaille and Chenildieu, and are

sentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with

the pretended Champmathieu. They do not hesitate; he is Jean Valjean

for them as well as for Brevet. The same age,—he is fifty-four,—the

same height, the same air, the same man; in short, it is he. It was

precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the

Prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason, and that

Jean Valjean is at Arras, in the power of the authorities. You can

imagine whether this surprised me, when I thought that I had that same

Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge; he sends for me;

Champmathieu is conducted to me—”

“Well?” interposed M. Madeleine.

Javert replied, his face incorruptible, and as melancholy as ever:—

“Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry; but that man is Jean

Valjean. I recognized him also.”

M. Madeleine resumed in, a very low voice:—

“You are sure?”

Javert began to laugh, with that mournful laugh which comes from

profound conviction.

“O! Sure!”

He stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically taking pinches

of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on

the table, and he added:—

“And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how

I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor.”

Javert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man,

who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole

station-house, and bade him “leave the room,”—Javert, that haughty man,

was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity,—M. Madeleine made no

other reply to his prayer than the abrupt question:—

“And what does this man say?”

“Ah! Indeed, Mr. Mayor, it’s a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he

has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a

branch, to purloin apples, is a mischievous trick in a child; for a man

it is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a crime. Robbing and

housebreaking—it is all there. It is no longer a question of

correctional police; it is a matter for the Court of Assizes. It is no

longer a matter of a few days in prison; it is the galleys for life.

And then, there is the affair with the little Savoyard, who will

return, I hope. The deuce! there is plenty to dispute in the matter, is

there not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly

dog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt

that things were getting hot for him; he would struggle, he would cry

out—the kettle sings before the fire; he would not be Jean Valjean, _et

cetera_. But he has not the appearance of understanding; he says, ‘I am

Champmathieu, and I won’t depart from that!’ He has an astonished air,

he pretends to be stupid; it is far better. Oh! the rogue is clever!

But it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been

recognized by four persons; the old scamp will be condemned. The case

has been taken to the Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my

testimony. I have been summoned.”

M. Madeleine had turned to his desk again, and taken up his docket, and

was turning over the leaves tranquilly, reading and writing by turns,

like a busy man. He turned to Javert:—

“That will do, Javert. In truth, all these details interest me but

little. We are wasting our time, and we have pressing business on hand.

Javert, you will betake yourself at once to the house of the woman

Buseaupied, who sells herbs at the corner of the Rue Saint-Saulve. You

will tell her that she must enter her complaint against carter Pierre

Chesnelong. The man is a brute, who came near crushing this woman and

her child. He must be punished. You will then go to M. Charcellay, Rue

Montre-de-Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the

adjoining house which discharges rain-water on his premises, and is

undermining the foundations of his house. After that, you will verify

the infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in

the Rue Guibourg, at Widow Doris’s, and Rue du Garraud-Blanc, at Madame

Renée le Bossé’s, and you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a

great deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that

you were going to Arras on that matter in a week or ten days?”

“Sooner than that, Mr. Mayor.”

“On what day, then?”

“Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case was

to be tried to-morrow, and that I am to set out by diligence to-night.”

M. Madeleine made an imperceptible movement.

“And how long will the case last?”

“One day, at the most. The judgment will be pronounced to-morrow

evening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is

certain; I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken.”

“That is well,” said M. Madeleine.

And he dismissed Javert with a wave of the hand.

Javert did not withdraw.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,” said he.

“What is it now?” demanded M. Madeleine.

“Mr. Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you.”

“What is it?”

“That I must be dismissed.”

M. Madeleine rose.

“Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your

fault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me. Javert, you

deserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish you to retain your

post.”

Javert gazed at M. Madeleine with his candid eyes, in whose depths his

not very enlightened but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible, and

said in a tranquil voice:—

“Mr. Mayor, I cannot grant you that.”

“I repeat,” replied M. Madeleine, “that the matter concerns me.”

But Javert, heeding his own thought only, continued:—

“So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is

the way I reason: I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is

our right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed above

ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the

object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you as a convict,

you, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate! That is serious, very

serious. I have insulted authority in your person, I, an agent of the

authorities! If one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I

should have declared him unworthy of the service, and have expelled

him. Well? Stop, Mr. Mayor; one word more. I have often been severe in

the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well.

Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have

done would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others?

No! What! I should be good for nothing but to chastise others, and not

myself! Why, I should be a blackguard! Those who say, ‘That blackguard

of a Javert!’ would be in the right. Mr. Mayor, I do not desire that

you should treat me kindly; your kindness roused sufficient bad blood

in me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The

kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a

citizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down

against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness.

That is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God! it

is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just. Come! if

you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to you,

not I! You would have seen! Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself as I would

treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have

proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself, ‘If

you flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest at your ease!’ I

have flinched, I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse!

Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled! That is well. I have arms. I

will till the soil; it makes no difference to me. Mr. Mayor, the good

of the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of

Inspector Javert.”

All this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced

tone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man.

“We shall see,” said M. Madeleine.

And he offered him his hand.

Javert recoiled, and said in a wild voice:—

“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his

hand to a police spy.”

He added between his teeth:—

“A police spy, yes; from the moment when I have misused the police. I

am no more than a police spy.”

Then he bowed profoundly, and directed his steps towards the door.

There he wheeled round, and with eyes still downcast:—

“Mr. Mayor,” he said, “I shall continue to serve until I am

superseded.”

He withdrew. M. Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm,

sure step, which died away on the pavement of the corridor.

BOOK SEVENTH—THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR