Les Misérables
M. Madeleine shuddered.
Fantine inquired:—
“What did the doctor say?”
M. Madeleine forced himself to smile.
“He said that your child was to be brought speedily. That that would
restore your health.”
“Oh!” she rejoined, “he is right! But what do those Thénardiers mean by
keeping my Cosette from me! Oh! she is coming. At last I behold
happiness close beside me!”
In the meantime Thénardier did not “let go of the child,” and gave a
hundred insufficient reasons for it. Cosette was not quite well enough
to take a journey in the winter. And then, there still remained some
petty but pressing debts in the neighborhood, and they were collecting
the bills for them, etc., etc.
“I shall send some one to fetch Cosette!” said Father Madeleine. “If
necessary, I will go myself.”
He wrote the following letter to Fantine’s dictation, and made her sign
it:—
“MONSIEUR THÉNARDIER:—
You will deliver Cosette to this person.
You will be paid for all the little things.
I have the honor to salute you with respect.
“FANTINE.”
In the meantime a serious incident occurred. Carve as we will the
mysterious block of which our life is made, the black vein of destiny
constantly reappears in it.
CHAPTER II—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.