2
HOW JEAN CAN BECOME CHAMP
ONE MORNING Monsieur Madeleine was in his office arranging for some pressing business of the mayoralty, in case he should decide to go to Montfermeil himself, when he was informed that Javert, the inspector of police, wished to speak with him. On hearing this name spoken, Monsieur Madeleine could not repress a disagreeable impression. Since the affair of the Bureau of Police, Javert had more than ever avoided him, and Monsieur Madeleine had not seen him at all.
“Let him come in,” said he.
Javert entered.
Monsieur Madeleine remained seated near the fire, looking over a bundle of papers upon which he was making notes, and which contained the reports of the police patrol. He did not disturb himself at all for Javert: he could not but think of poor Fantine, and it was fitting that he should receive him very coldly.
Javert respectfully saluted the mayor, who had his back towards him. The mayor did not look up, but continued to make notes on the papers.
Javert advanced a few steps, and paused without breaking silence.
A physiognomist, had he been familiar with Javert’s face, had he made a study for years of this savage in the service of civilisation, this odd mixture of the Roman, Spartan, monk and corporal, this spy, incapable of a lie, this virgin detective—a physiognomist, had he known his secret and inveterate aversion for Monsieur Madeleine, his contest with the mayor on the subject of Fantine, and had he seen Javert at that moment, would have said: “What has happened to him?”
alIt was evident to any one who had known this conscientious, straightforward, transparent, sincere, upright, austere, fierce man, that Javert had suffered some great interior commotion. There was nothing in his mind that was not depicted on his face. He was, like all violent people, subject to sudden changes. Never had his face been stranger or more startling. On entering, he had bowed before Monsieur Madeleine with a look in which was neither rancour, anger, nor defiance; he paused some steps behind the mayor’s chair, and was now standing in a soldierly attitude with the natural, cold harshness of a man who was never kind, but has always been patient; he waited without speaking a word or making a motion, in genuine humility and tranquil resignation, until it should please Monsieur the Mayor to turn towards him, calm, serious, hat in hand, and eyes cast down with an expression between that of a soldier before his officer and a prisoner before his judge. All the feeling as well as all the remembrances which we should have expected him to have, disappeared. Nothing was left upon this face, simple and impenetrable as granite, except a gloomy sadness. His whole person expressed abasement and firmness, an indescribably courageous dejection.
At last the mayor laid down his pen and turned partly round:
“Well, what is it? What is the matter Javert?”
Javert remained silent a moment as if collecting himself; then raised his voice with a sad solemnity which did not, however, exclude simplicity: “There has been a criminal act committed, Monsieur Mayor.”
“What act?”
“An inferior agent of the government has been wanting in respect to a magistrate, in the gravest manner. I come, as is my duty, to bring the fact to your knowledge.”
“Who is this agent?” asked Monsieur Madeleine.
“I,” said Javert.
“You?”
“I.”
“And who is the magistrate who has to complain of this agent?”
“You, Monsieur Mayor.”
Monsieur Madeleine straightened himself in his chair. Javert continued, with serious looks and eyes still cast down.
“Monsieur Mayor, I come to ask you to be so kind as to make charges and procure my dismissal.”
Monsieur Madeleine, amazed, opened his mouth. Javert interrupted him:
“You will say that I might tender my resignation, but that is not enough. To resign is honourable; I have done wrong. I ought to be punished. I must be dismissed.”
And after a pause he added:
“Monsieur Mayor, you were severe to me the other day, unjustly. Be justly so to-day.”
“Ah, indeed! why? What is all this nonsense? What does it all mean? What is the criminal act committed by you against me? What have you done to me? How have you wronged me? You accuse yourself: do you wish to be relieved?”
“Dismissed,” said Javert.
“Dismissed it is then. It is very strange. I do not understand you.”
“You will understand, Monsieur Mayor,” Javert sighed deeply, and continued sadly and coldly:
“Monsieur Mayor, six weeks ago, after that scene about that girl, I was enraged and I denounced you.”
“Denounced me?”
“To the Prefecture of Police at Paris.”
Monsieur Madeleine, who did not laugh much oftener than Javert, began to laugh:
“As a mayor having encroached upon the police?”
“As a former convict.”
The mayor became livid.
Javert, who had not raised his eyes, continued:
“I believed it. For a long while I had had suspicions. A resemblance, information you obtained at Faverolles, your immense strength; the affair of old Fauchelevent; your skill as a marksman; your leg which drags a little—and in fact I don’t know what other trivial details; but at last I took you for a man named Jean Valjean.”
“Named what? What name did you say?”
“Jean Valjean. He was a convict I saw twenty years ago, when I was adjutant of the galley guard at Toulon. After leaving the galleys this Valjean, it appears, robbed a bishop’s palace, then he committed another robbery with weapons in his hands, in a highway, on a little chimneysweep. For eight years his whereabouts have been unknown, and search has been made for him. I fancied—in short, I have done this thing. Anger determined me, and I denounced you to the prefect.”
M. Madeleine, who had taken up the file of papers again, a few moments before, said with a tone of perfect indifference: “And what answer did you get?”
“That I was crazy.”
“Well!”
“Well; they were right.”
“It is fortunate that you admit it!”
“It must be so, for the real Jean Valjean has been found.”
The paper that M. Madeleine held fell from his hand; he raised his head, looked steadily at Javert, and said in an inexpressible tone:
“Ah!”
Javert continued:
“I will tell you how it is, Monsieur Mayor. There was, it appears, in the country, near Ailly-le-Haut Clocher, a simple sort of fellow who was called Old Champmathieu. He was very poor. Nobody paid any attention to him. Such folks live, one hardly knows how. Finally, this last fall, Old Champmathieu was arrested for stealing cider apples from—, but that is of no consequence. There was a theft, a wall scaled, branches of trees broken. Our Champmathieu was arrested; he had even then a branch of an apple-tree in his hand. The rogue was caged. So far, it was nothing more than a penitentiary matter. But here comes in the hand of Providence. The jail being in a bad condition, the police justice thought it best to take him to Arras, where the prison of the department is. In this prison at Arras there was a former convict named Brevet, who is there for some trifle, and who, for his good conduct, has been made turnkey. No sooner was Champmathieu set down, than Brevet cried out: ‘Ha, ha! I know that man. He is a
fagot.’am“ ‘Look up here, my good man. You are Jean Valjean.’ ‘Jean Valjean, who is Jean Valjean?’ Champmathieu feigns astonishment. ‘Don’t play ignorance,’ said Brevet. ‘You are Jean Valjean; you were in the galleys at Toulon. It is twenty years ago. We were there together.’ Champmathieu denied it all. Of course! you understand; they investigated it. The case was worked up and this was what they found. This Champmathieu thirty years ago was a pruner in divers places, particularly in Faverolles. There we lose trace of him. A long time afterwards we find him at Auvergne; then at Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright and to have had a daughter—a washerwoman, but that is not proven, and finally in this part of the country. Now before going to the galleys for burglary, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner. Where? At Faverolles. Another fact. This Valjean’s baptismal name was Jean; his mother’s family name, Mathieu. Nothing could be more natural, on leaving the galleys, than to take his mother’s name to disguise himself; then he would be called Jean Mathieu. He goes to Auvergne, the pronunciation of that region would make Chan of Jean—they would call him Chan Mathieu. Our man adopts it, and now you have him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me, do you not? Search has been made at Faverolles; the family of Jean Valjean are no longer there. Nobody knows where they are. You know in such classes these disappearances of families often occur. You search, but can find nothing. Such people, when they are not mud, are dust. And then as the commencement of this story dates back thirty years, there is nobody now at Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean. But search has been made at Toulon. Besides Brevet there are only two convicts who have seen Jean Valjean. They are convicts for life; their names are Cochepaille and Chenildieu. These men were brought from the galleys and confronted with the so-called Champmathieu. They did not hesitate. To them as well as to Brevet it was Jean Valjean. Same age; fifty-four years old; same height; same appearance, in fact the same man; it is he. At this time it was that I sent my denunciation to the Prefecture at Paris. They replied that I was out of my mind, and that Jean Valjean was at Arras in the hands of justice. You may imagine how that astonished me; I who believed that I had here the same Jean Valjean. I wrote to the examining magistrate; he sent for me and brought Champmathieu before me.”
“Well,” interrupted Monsieur Madeleine.
Javert replied, with an incorruptible and sad face:
“Monsieur Mayor, truth is truth. I am sorry for it, but that man is Jean Valjean. I recognised him also.”
Monsieur Madeleine said in a very low voice:
“Are you sure?”
Javert began to laugh with the suppressed laugh which indicates profound conviction.
“H‘m, sure!”
He remained a moment in thought, mechanically taking up pinches of the powdered wood used to dry ink, from the box on the table, and then added:
“And now that I see the real Jean Valjean, I do not understand how I ever could have believed anything else. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Mayor.”
In uttering these serious and supplicating words to him, who six weeks before had humiliated him before the entire squad, and had said “Leave!” Javert, this haughty man, was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity. Monsieur Madeleine responded to this entreaty only with this abrupt question:
“And what did the man say?”
“Oh, bless me! Monsieur Mayor, the affair is a bad one. If it is Jean Valjean, it is a second offence. To climb a wall, break a branch, and take apples, for a child is only a trespass; for a man it is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a felony. Scaling a wall and theft includes everything. It is not a case for a police court, but for the circuit court. It is not a few days’ imprisonment, but the galleys for life. And then there is the business of the little chimneysweep, whom I hope will be found. The devil! That’s a difficult set of charges to elude, isn’t it? They would be for anybody but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly fellow. And that is just where I recognise him. Anybody else would know that he was in hot water, and would rave and cry out, as the tea-kettle sings on the fire; he would say that he was not Jean Valjean, et cetera. But this man pretends not to understand, he says: ‘I am Champmathieu: I have no more to say.’ He puts on an appearance of astonishment; he plays stupid. Oh, the rascal is cunning! But it is all the same, there is the evidence. Four persons have recognised him, and the old villain will be condemned. It has been taken to the circuit court at Arras. I am going to testify. I have been subpoenaed.”
Monsieur Madeleine had turned again to his desk, and was quietly looking over his papers, reading and writing alternately, like a man pressed with business. He turned again towards Javert:
“That will do, Javert. Indeed all these details interest me very little. We are wasting time, and we have urgent business, Javert; go at once to the house of the good woman Buseaupied, who sells herbs at the corner of Rue Saint Saulve, tell her to make her complaint against the carman Pierre Chesne long. He is a brutal fellow, he almost crushed this woman and her child. He must be punished. Then you will go to Monsieur Charcellay, Rue Montrede-Champigny. He complains that the gutter of the next house when it rains throws water upon his house, and is undermining the foundation. Then you will inquire into the offences that have been reported to me, at the widow Doris‘s, Rue Guibourg, and Madame Renée le Bossé’s, Rue du Garraud Blanc, and make out reports. But I am giving you too much to do. Did you not tell me you were going to Arras in eight or ten days on this matter?”
“Sooner than that, Monsieur Mayor.”
“What day then?”
“I think I told monsieur that the case would be tried to-morrow, and that I should leave by the stagecoach to-night.”
Monsieur Madeleine made an imperceptible motion.
“And how long will the matter last?”
“One day at longest. Sentence will be pronounced at latest to-morrow evening. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is certain; as soon as my testimony is given I shall return here.”
“Very well,” said Monsieur Madeleine.
And he dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Javert did not go.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” said he.
“What more is there?” asked Monsieur Madeleine.
“Monsieur Mayor, there is one thing more to which I desire to call your attention.”
“What is it?”
“It is that I ought to be dismissed.”
Monsieur Madeleine arose. “Javert, you are a man of honour and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Besides, this is an offence which concerns me. You are worthy of promotion rather than disgrace. I desire you to keep your place.”
Javert looked at Monsieur Madeleine with his calm eyes, in whose depths it seemed that one beheld his conscience, unenlightened, but stern and pure, and said in a tranquil voice:
“Monsieur Mayor, I cannot agree to that.”
“I repeat,” said Monsieur Madeleine, “that this matter concerns me.”
But Javert, with his one idea, continued:
“As to exaggerating, I do not exaggerate. This is the way I reason. I have unjustly suspected you. That is nothing. It is our province to suspect, although it may be an abuse of our right to suspect our superiors. But without proofs and in a fit of anger, with revenge as my aim, I denounced you as a convict—you, a respectable man, a mayor, and a magistrate. This is a serious matter, very serious. I have committed an offence against authority in your person, I, who am the agent of authority. If one of my subordinates had done what I have, I would have pronounced him unworthy of the service, and sent him away. Well, listen a moment, Monsieur Mayor; I have often been severe in my life towards others. It was just. I did right. Now if I were not severe towards myself, all I have justly done would become injustice. Should I spare myself more than others? No. What! if I should be prompt only to punish others and not myself, I should be a wretch indeed!
an They who say: ‘That blackguard, Javert,’ would be right. Monsieur Mayor, I do not wish you to treat me with kindness. Your kindness, when it was for others, enraged me; I do not wish it for myself. That kindness which consists in defending a woman of the town against a citizen, a police agent against the mayor, the inferior against the superior, that is what I call ill-judged kindness. Such kindness disorganizes society. Good God, it is easy to be kind, the difficulty is to be just. Had you been what I thought, I should not have been kind to you; not I. You would have seen, Monsieur Mayor. I ought to treat myself as I would treat anybody else. When I put down malefactors, when I rigorously punished offenders, I often said to myself: ‘You, if you ever trip; if ever I catch you doing wrong, look out!’ I have tripped, I have caught myself doing wrong. So much the worse! I must be sent away, broken, dismissed, that is right. I have hands: I can till the ground. It is all the same to me. Monsieur Mayor, the good of the service demands an example. I simply ask the dismissal of Inspector Javert.”
All this was said in a tone of proud humility, a desperate and resolute tone, which gave an indescribably bizarre grandeur to this oddly honest man.
“We will see,” said Monsieur Madeleine.
And he held out his hand to him.
Javert started back, and said fiercely:
“Pardon, Monsieur Mayor, that should not be. A mayor does not give his hand to a spy.”
He added between his teeth:
“Spy, yes; from the moment I abused the power of my position, I have been nothing better than a spy!”
Then he bowed profoundly, and went towards the door.
There he turned around: his eyes yet downcast.
“Monsieur Mayor, I will continue in the service until I am relieved.”
He went out. Monsieur Madeleine sat musing, listening to his firm and resolute step as it died away along the corridor.