Les Misérables
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!”
CHAPTER XI—CHAMPMATHIEU MORE AND MORE ASTONISHED
It was he, in fact. The clerk’s lamp illumined his countenance. He held
his hat in his hand; there was no disorder in his clothing; his coat
was carefully buttoned; he was very pale, and he trembled slightly; his
hair, which had still been gray on his arrival in Arras, was now
entirely white: it had turned white during the hour he had sat there.
All heads were raised: the sensation was indescribable; there was a
momentary hesitation in the audience, the voice had been so
heart-rending; the man who stood there appeared so calm that they did
not understand at first. They asked themselves whether he had indeed
uttered that cry; they could not believe that that tranquil man had
been the one to give that terrible outcry.
This indecision only lasted a few seconds. Even before the President
and the district-attorney could utter a word, before the ushers and the
gendarmes could make a gesture, the man whom all still called, at that
moment, M. Madeleine, had advanced towards the witnesses Cochepaille,
Brevet, and Chenildieu.
“Do you not recognize me?” said he.
All three remained speechless, and indicated by a sign of the head that
they did not know him. Cochepaille, who was intimidated, made a
military salute. M. Madeleine turned towards the jury and the court,
and said in a gentle voice:—
“Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Mr.
President, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search
of; it is I: I am Jean Valjean.”
Not a mouth breathed; the first commotion of astonishment had been
followed by a silence like that of the grave; those within the hall
experienced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses when
something grand has been done.
In the meantime, the face of the President was stamped with sympathy
and sadness; he had exchanged a rapid sign with the district-attorney
and a few low-toned words with the assistant judges; he addressed the
public, and asked in accents which all understood:—
“Is there a physician present?”
The district-attorney took the word:—
“Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which
disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a
sentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by
reputation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M.; if
there is a physician in the audience, we join the President in
requesting him to attend to M. Madeleine, and to conduct him to his
home.”
M. Madeleine did not allow the district-attorney to finish; he
interrupted him in accents full of suavity and authority. These are the
words which he uttered; here they are literally, as they were written
down, immediately after the trial by one of the witnesses to this
scene, and as they now ring in the ears of those who heard them nearly
forty years ago:—
“I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see;
you were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I
am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one
here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth. God,
who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that
suffices. You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best; I
concealed myself under another name; I have become rich; I have become
a mayor; I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems
that that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I
cannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you; you will
hear it one of these days. I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true;
it is true that I robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you
that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not
altogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so
greatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to
Providence, nor any advice to give to society; but, you see, the infamy
from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys
make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please. Before
going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very little
intelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change in me. I
was stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood; I became a
firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had
ruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. You
will find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the forty-sou
piece which I stole, seven years ago, from Little Gervais. I have
nothing farther to add; take me. Good God! the district-attorney shakes
his head; you say, ‘M. Madeleine has gone mad!’ you do not believe me!
that is distressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! these
men do not recognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize
me.”
Nothing can reproduce the sombre and kindly melancholy of tone which
accompanied these words.
He turned to the three convicts, and said:—
“Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet?”
He paused, hesitated for an instant, and said:—
“Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which
you wore in the galleys?”
Brevet gave a start of surprise, and surveyed him from head to foot
with a frightened air. He continued:—
“Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of ‘Jenie-Dieu,’
your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn, because you one day laid
your shoulder against the chafing-dish full of coals, in order to
efface the three letters T. F. P., which are still visible,
nevertheless; answer, is this true?”
“It is true,” said Chenildieu.
He addressed himself to Cochepaille:—
“Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped
in blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing of
the Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve!”
Cochepaille pushed up his sleeve; all eyes were focused on him and on
his bare arm.
A gendarme held a light close to it; there was the date.
The unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile
which still rends the hearts of all who saw it whenever they think of
it. It was a smile of triumph; it was also a smile of despair.
“You see plainly,” he said, “that I am Jean Valjean.”
In that chamber there were no longer either judges, accusers, nor
gendarmes; there was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing hearts.
No one recalled any longer the part that each might be called upon to
play; the district-attorney forgot he was there for the purpose of
prosecuting, the President that he was there to preside, the counsel
for the defence that he was there to defend. It was a striking
circumstance that no question was put, that no authority intervened.
The peculiarity of sublime spectacles is, that they capture all souls
and turn witnesses into spectators. No one, probably, could have
explained what he felt; no one, probably, said to himself that he was
witnessing the splendid outburst of a grand light: all felt themselves
inwardly dazzled.
It was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes. That was