Bab Bab 65 · THE SYSTEM OF DENIALS

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.”

[Illustration: Father Champmathieu on Trial]

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’Hôpital; 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 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,—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!”