Brickclub Retrobricking 1.7.9, “Where Convictions Take Shape” and 1.7.10, “Systematic Denials”
Gosh, I love the description of the courtroom:
“At one end of the room, the one where he was standing, listless-looking magistrates in threadbare robes, boring their fingernails or closing their eyes; at the other end, a ragged throng; lawyers striking all sorts of attitudes, soldiers with stern but honest faces, old stained wood paneling, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge more yellowed than green, finger-blackened doors; on nails driven into the paneling, tap-room lamps giving off more smoke than light; on the tables, candles in brass candlesticks. Gloom, ugliness, dreariness. And all this created an austere and imposing impression, for there was a sense here of that great human thing called the law and of that great divine thing called justice.”
The courtroom is packed to the gills, even though the two cases on the docket were both supposed to be straightforward and not especially interesting. I guess that’s what you do for evening entertainment in Arras.
And Valjean’s increasing dissociation over the last couple of chapters is driven home by the fact that he is basically witnessing his original trial, from 27 years before—only as an observer, standing outside himself and watching someone else be Jean Valjean. “It was all there: the same trappings, the same late hour, almost the same faces of magistrates, soldiers and spectators. Only, above the judge’s head there was a crucifix, something that was missing from the courts at the time of his conviction. When he was tried, God was absent.” Which is to say, as Hugo helpfully reminded us in the courtroom description, justice was absent.
Though it’s not looking good for justice right now. Monsieur Bamatabois is on the jury, because FUCK THAT GUY. (I know the jury rolls were restricted to property owners at the time, though the tax requirements were lower than they were for voting. I assume he’s on a jury in Arras because the assizes draw jurors from all over the court district?)
Hugo’s literary digs at the prosecutor just keep coming. I remember finding them tedious when I read Les Mis in high school; now I find them funnier every time. (And Bénigne Bossuet alert! We get an allusion about his funeral oration for Anne of Cleves, in which he was obliged to mention a chicken.)
And in the midst of all of this, there’s Champmathieu:
“Cette homme, c’etait l’homme.” [CHECK BEFORE POSTING.] “This man was the man.”
Ecce Homo Level: We’re Just Straight Out Saying It Now. Though Champmathieu is also “the man” in another way: if Madeleine / the real Valjean is here to redeem him from the hell and death of the galleys, that aligns Champmathieu with humanity in general—but especially in medieval iconography, with Adam, noted thief of apples.
Champmathieu, like the other misérables, erupts in speech that he doesn’t seem to be able to direct or stop. I mentioned in 1.6.5 Bird’s observation about Champmathieu being a cartwright. Beyond that, the line that struck me most this time was “I think my father and mother were traveling people. I don’t actually know. When I was a child I was called Lad, now I’m called Old Man. Those are my Christian names.” Champmathieu isn’t just an alternate version of Valjean—he’s an alternate version of Javert. He comes from the same roots, in a way that the real Valjean does not. Champmathieu is what Javert might have become if his whole family had not been incarcerated or institutionalized—if instead he had grown up like Fantine.
We’re told Javert would have sent his parents back to prison. Here, he’s ready to send himself there.
I really wonder, also, to what extent his convincing himself Champmathieu was the real Valjean wasn’t just him being gaslit by authority, but gaslighting himself, because he senses that Champmathieu is the vagrant version of himself that he has been trying to suppress for his entire life.
