No one in this crowd paid any attention to him. All eyes were focused on a single object, a wooden bench set against a small door in the wall to the left of the presiding judge. On this bench, illuminated by several candles, was a man sitting between two gendarmes.
This man was the man. He did not look for him. He saw him. His eyes went to him naturally as if they knew in advance where that figure was.
He thought he saw himself, aged, with not exactly the same features, to be sure, but identical in attitude and appearance, with that bristling hair, those wary brown eyes, that smock, just as he was the day he arrived at Digne, full of hatred and concealing in his heart that hideous hoard of dreadful thoughts he had spent nineteen years accumulating in the chain gang.
He said to himself with a shudder, âGod! Will I become like that again?â
Man how crazy that would feel
Seeing what could have been you - and what now might become you again. Like some sort of distorted mirror of the past and potential future both.
Magistrates, a clerk, gendarmes, a crowd of cruelly curious faces, he had seen this once already, in days gone by, twenty-seven years ago. These ominous things he was re-experiencing â they were here, they were astir, they existed. This was no longer an effort of memory, no mental illusion, these were real gendarmes and real magistrates, a real crowd and real men of flesh and blood. The worst had happened: he saw around him the monstrous aspects of his past, reappearing, reviving, with all the fearsomeness of reality.
OH YEAH BEING BACK IN A COURTROOM WOULD BE KINDA TRIGGERING I forgot he'd have been in one like this before dang
All this yawned before him. He was horrified, he closed his eyes, and cried out in the deepest recesses of his soul: Never!
And by a tragic twist of fate that made all his thoughts quake and almost drove him mad, it was another incarnation of himself who sat there! . . . He had before his eyes an extraordinary vision, a kind of re-enactment of the most horrible moment of his life, played by his ghost.
Oh big fan of that. A re-enactment played by his ghost. SO good
It was all there: the same trappings, the same late hour, almost the same faces of magistrates, soldiers and spectators. Only, above the judgeâs 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.
BIG FAN OF THAT TOO AGH HUGO YOU ARE SO GOOD AT THIS
There was no mercy, no consideration of his situation⊠but now he can be here to provide the fairness he didn't receive. God - mercy, fairness, conscience, etc - is not absent this time.
Okayyy Hugo, I don't think the list of fancied up terminology used by lawyers needed to be that long
His client, whom he persisted in his capacity as defence counsel in calling Champmathieu, had not been seen, by anyone, climbing the wall or breaking off the branch. He had been apprehended in possession of that branch (which the lawyer more readily called a âboughâ), but he said he had found it on the ground and picked it up. Where was the proof to the contrary? This branch had undoubtedly been broken off and stolen after the wall had been climbed, then thrown down by the frightened thief. Undoubtedly there was a thief. But what proved that Champmathieu was that thief? One thing only: the fact that he was a convicted felon. The lawyer did not deny that, unfortunately, this fact seemed to be well established . . . The lawyer concluded by entreating the court and the jury â if it seemed to them Jean Valjeanâs identity had been proven â to apply the legal penalties pertaining to a breach of parole and not the appalling punishment imposed on the convicted felon who re-offends.
Nod nod nod good points good points, excellent work
This poor accused man. He's so confused and freaked out and tired of these false accusations. That would be absolutely terrifying. Trying to explain yourself and no one believes a word of it.
âŠ. Or maybe it would be bad for him. Javert would probably leap at the chance to be proven right about this, but if he's not here, there's a chance no one will believe Val about his identity, and then he might not be able to save this man đ€
The public prosecutor concluded by insisting that despite the absence of Javert the three witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu and Cochepaille should be heard again and formally questioned.
I mean, I'm not sure what this is going to do. If they all say the same thing again - that this is JVJ - then all he's doing is giving the jury one last reminder that there's a lot of "evidence" against this guy
âBrevet,â said the presiding judge, âas a convicted felon, you have lost your civil rights and you cannot take the oath.â
Huh. I didn't know that was a thing. Is that still a thing?
. . . Consider on the one hand this man: a word from you may ruin him; on the other hand, justice: a word from you may enlighten it. This is a solemn moment, and there is still time to retract if you think you were mistaken. Prisoner at the bar, rise. Brevet, take a good look at the accused, summon up your memories and tell us in all good faith if you persist in recognizing this man as your former fellow convict, Jean Valjean.â
It kind of feels like that first sentence there is being directed at Val without intending to be.
I dunno, shouldn't we perhaps take into account a changed personality⊠just a little bitâŠ
Yeah I figured nothing would change. All three confirming it đźâđš
At that moment there was a stir very close to the judge. A voice was heard to cry out, âBrevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! Look over here!â
I WAS ALREADY SAT BUT NOW SATTING STRAIGHTER OH BOY OH BOY
All who heard that voice felt chilled, so mournful and terrible was it. All eyes turned to the place it came from. A man who had been among the privileged spectators seated behind the bench had just got to his feet, pushed open the breast-high door that separated the bench from the floor of the court, and was standing in the middle of the chamber.
The judge, the public prosecutor, Monsieur Bamatabois, two dozen people recognized him and cried out in unison, âMonsieur Madeleine!â
The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question, âHave you anything to add to your defence?â
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,âincoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other,âas though they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said:â
âThis 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 wheelwrightâs 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 oneâs arms together to warm oneâs self; but the masters donât 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 ageâand 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 oâclock 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 oâclock. 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. Baloupâs; and after all, I donât know what is wanted of me.â
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 âthe gentlemen of the juryâ that âthe 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.â Then turning to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to what he was about to say, and added: âYou 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 Valjeanâyes or no?â
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:â
âIn the first placeââ
Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.
âPrisoner,â said the district-attorney, in a severe voice; âpay 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.â
The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly when the district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed:â
âYou 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, âAnswer!â The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and says to me in a low voice, âCome, answer!â I donât 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 donât know those persons; they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de lâHĂŽpital; my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born; I donât know myself: itâs 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 <i>young fellow</i>; now they call me <i>old Fellow</i>; those are my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne; I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! canât 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?â
The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President:â
âI would remind the district-attorney,â said the President, âthat 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.â
âThat is true, Mr. President,â responded the district-attorney. âIn 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: âI do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisonerâs 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 Dââ 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.ââ
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 witnessesâ 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 manâs 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, âHe tries to make himself of use.â The chaplains bore good testimony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration.
âBrevet,â said the President, âyou have undergone an ignominious sentence, and you cannot take an oath.â
Brevet dropped his eyes.
âNevertheless,â continued the President, âeven 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,âand I hope it does,âreflect 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?â
Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court.
âYes, 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.â
âTake your seat,â said the President. âPrisoner, remain standing.â
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>I-deny-God</i> (<i>Je-nie Dieu</i>, 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.
âPardieu, as if I didnât recognize him! We were attached to the same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow?â
âGo take your seat,â 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.
âHe is Jean Valjean,â said Cochepaille. âHe was even called Jean-the-Screw, because he was so strong.â
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,âa 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: âAh, well, heâs a nice one!â after the second, he said, a little louder, with an air that was almost that of satisfaction, âGood!â at the third, he cried, âFamous!â
The President addressed him:â
âHave you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?â
He replied:â
âI say, âFamous!ââ
An uproar broke out among the audience, and was communicated to the jury; it was evident that the man was lost.
âUshers,â said the President, âenforce silence! I am going to sum up the arguments.â
At that moment there was a movement just beside the President; a voice was heard crying:â
âBrevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!â
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:â
With all due sympathy for Champmathieu and his arduous labour coupled with unjust compensation, it immediately stunned me that he made (no more than) 30 sous a day, while Fantine earned only 12 (!) sous a dayâ and this amount was further reduced. That's what I call unfair.
As I delve into the Brick, the concept of identity protection in the past keeps occupying my thoughts. And we are already in the nineteenth century when at least some people had passports. However, it's evident from these pages that having a passport was a privilege beyond the means of the poor. Concerning identity protection, it appears that peasants who never left their villages were in a more advantageous position than the urban poor, especially those without a family. How would Champmathieu prove that he is Champmathieu and not Jean Valjean when the only person who could vouch for him (Baloup) was impossible to find?
And what is it with the witnesses who claim that they have recognized âJean Valjeanâ in Champmathieu? Do all labourers over 50 just blend into one generic image of a dangerous man for them? Javertâs testimony in the court undermines his laudable reputation of an honest and trustworthy man. âI recognize him perfectly.â Do you, really? Â
However, M. Madeleine doesn't face the problem of people recognizing him at this point in his life as a respectable bourgeoisâtwenty people in the court turn their heads, and they know that he is M. Madeleine.
I canât believe all the tests to determine Valjeanâs identity at this trial were based on things that change for him, like his appearance, and not on his true identifying trait:Â âthe strength of his loins.â The other convicts keep mentioning it, and somehow no one (not even Javert) thought to just see how much Champmathieu can lift.
Iâd abandoned the whole Cart Symbolism thing for a while, because honestly, what else could Valjean have traveled in? That doesnât prove itâs not symbolic, but it also means I canât prove it *is.*
But weâre back.
Because Champmathieu is a wheelwright.
All Valjeanâs difficulty getting here just got flipped on its head. He was desperate to save one man accused of being Jean Valjean so he was throwing his Elite Bourgeois Power And Money at the problem, trying to make poor people move faster. He said to the wheelwright, âI need this in an hourâ and the man was like, no, thatâs not how this works, Iâm the only one working, and I can get it to you tomorrow.
And it just felt like an obstacle in Valjeanâs way.
But that was a wheelwright in the middle of winter, and Champmathieu just explained what that job is like: working long, brutal days outdoors because it takes too much room to go inside, whipping yourself to keep warm (when the overseers donât stop you from it as a waste of time). These are the people who allow society (The CART) to move forward, and Valjean, trying to do his one good thing, missed the point.
Myrielâs ways of dealing with the world werenât perfect, but they were much more holistic than Valjeanâs, who having made mistakes is trying to save each person heâs harmed individually--first Fantine, now Champmathieu. Heâs losing sight of all the other Fantines and Champmathieus that make up society.
And Iâm not sure Valjean ever fixes that. He decides to save Cosette at all costs, but--unlike in the brilliant Shoujo Cosette, which fixes this along with many other things--he avoids larger scales of helping people after this. He gives alms and doesnât try to deal with the larger picture, because heâs learned he messes things up when he pretends he understands it.
(Damn, I want more Valjean-and-the-Amis fic. Thereâs so much there that could be amazing.)
I like how Champmathieu is the only sensible person here. He really could reasonably be a lot more off and confused than he is, given potential language barriers and everything else, but he is, in fact, explaining exactly the relevant points pretty eloquently. But everyone has already made up their minds, and his markers of social class are damning him further.
I love Mellowâs point that Javert has once again and as always changed his perception of the facts to suit what his bosses say they are, and is being praised for it. Others have pointed out that Champmathieu and Valjean donât have to physically look much like each other, since much of their resemblance is their poverty and social status, and thatâs thematically important. Both of those are excellent points!
BUT. I think itâs also worth saying that eyewitness-identification of suspects really just straight-up is exactly as bad as this portrays. Human facial recognition and human memory arenât anything like as accurate as we pretend they are, and weâre much more subject to social pressures on these things than we want to think. Javert isnât strange for completely revising what his eyes told him because the police said he was wrong--thatâs most peopleâs response! Itâs the reason police lineups are a Problem.
Man, I wish this book would hurry up and become useless.
