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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!"
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