1.F.7.10. 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."
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'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 President: —
"Monsieur le President, 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!"