Although he did not realize it, Mayor Madeleine of Montreuil was somewhat of a celebrity. For seven years, his reputation for virtue had filled the town and the surrounding villages, and even reached outside the entire district. And beyond the prosperity he had brought to Montreuil, there was not one of the 140 nearby communities that was not indebted to him for some benefit he had provided.
The judge presiding over the current court session at Arras was certainly acquainted with his name—something he held in common with everyone, since the mayor was so profoundly and universally honored. Therefore, when the court clerk handed the judge a note with the name Madeleine on it, which read, “This gentleman desires to attend the trial,” the judge immediately wrote at the bottom of the paper, “Admit him.” At this the clerk quickly ushered the mayor into the courtroom where the trial had commenced some hours before.
The courtroom was quite large but poorly lit. No one paid any attention to the mayor, for all eyes were directed toward a wooden bench to the judge’s left. On this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat a man between two guards.
So this is the man, Madeleine thought instinctively. Yet his eyes had not sought him out—they had gone there quite naturally, as though they had known him beforehand. As he scrutinized the poor man, he thought he was looking at himself, except that the man seemed older. His face was not quite the same, but his demeanor was exactly that of the old Valjean. He had the same short, bristly hair and the same suspicious and untamed eyes Valjean had the day he had entered the town of Digne. He seemed to be full of hatred and anger, which only served to hide his soul beneath a multitude of fears—fears probably collected through years of serving time in prison.
The mayor said to himself with a shudder, “My God! Is that what I am to become again?”
Only the judge and the district attorney prosecuting the case seemed to notice Mayor Madeleine, and both bowed slightly upon seeing him. Nearly terrified that others would now recognize him, he dropped into a chair immediately behind him and attempted to conceal his face. He then looked around the courtroom for Javert but did not see him.
Just as the mayor had entered the courtroom, the defendant’s lawyer had rested his case. During the three hours of the trial thus far, the crowd had been observing this strange man, who was a miserable specimen of humanity. He had been questioned and appeared to be either profoundly ignorant or extremely cunning, yet, whichever was correct, he gradually was bending beneath the weight of his terrible likeness to Valjean. And several witnesses had already been heard who were unanimous in identifying the man.
Nearing the conclusion of his case, the district attorney said, “The man on trial here today not only is a plunderer and a thief who has stolen fruit, but also is an old offender who has violated his parole. Yes, he is an ex-convict of the most vicious and dangerous type, a criminal named Jean Valjean, whom justice has sought for many years. Eight years ago, after being paroled from the prison at Toulon, he committed a violent robbery, attacking a small lad from Savoy named Little Gervais, and then stealing his money from him. This is a crime under article 383 of the penal code, and I reserve the right to try him for this crime later, once we have judicially established his true identity. His most recent theft of stealing a branch full of ripe apples is the one for which he stands accused today. Later he will be judged for his old crime.”
After the district attorney finished his statement, the debate between the prosecution and the defense had come to an end. Then the judge asked the accused man to stand and addressed him by saying, “Did you or did you not climb the wall around the Pierron orchard, break off a branch, and steal the apples—that is to say, did you commit the crimes of breaking in and theft? Also, are you the ex-convict, Jean Valjean—yes or no?”
The prisoner replied, “I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day, and as I was coming from Ailly, walking through the countryside after a rain shower, I found a broken branch on the ground with apples still on it. I picked up the branch without knowing it would get me into trouble. I have now been locked up for three months, have been beaten, and do not understand what is happening to me. At times the guard next to me nudges my elbow and whispers, ‘Answer now.’ But I don’t know how to answer. I’m not an educated man and I’m poor. You say I’m someone named Jean Valjean, but I don’t know the man. My name is Champmathieu. I don’t understand why everyone has pursued me so furiously.”
The prosecuting attorney who had remained standing then addressed the judge, “Monsieur le Judge, I would like to recall the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenildieu, as well as Police Inspector Javert. I would like to question them one last time as to the identity of the prisoner in regard to the ex-convict Jean Valjean.”
“I wish to remind you, sir,” replied the judge, “that Police Inspector Javert was called away by some official duty as soon as he had given his testimony.”
“Thank you, Monsieur le Judge,” responded the district attorney. “In that case, I wish to remind the gentlemen of the jury of that testimony made here several hours ago.”
Then he read from Javert’s statement, which said, “I have no need to see the court’s evidence or hear the prosecution’s persuasive arguments to know that the prisoner’s denial is an absolute lie. I recognize this man perfectly, and he is not Champmathieu. He is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, a man who is very dangerous and to be feared. It is extremely unfortunate he was released at the expiration of his prison term. He served nineteen years of hard labor for theft and made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais and his recent theft of apples, I also suspect him of a theft committed at the house of His Grace, the late bishop of Digne. There is no doubt in my mind this man is Valjean, for I saw him quite often when I was an officer of the prison guard in Toulon. I repeat—I recognize him perfectly.”
Javert’s precisely worded statement had a visually profound effect on the jury and the spectators in the courtroom. In spite of this convincing testimony, however—and in order to remove any possible doubt in the minds of the jury—the district attorney insisted on recalling the other three witnesses, Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille.
One after the other, the convicts positively identified the prisoner as Jean Valjean once again. One of the men testified to having been chained to Valjean for five years, while another, referring to the accused man’s build, testified to his incredible strength. Each man appeared to be making his statement sincerely and in good conscience, and after each one finished, a murmur seemed to rumble through the courtroom.
“Silence!” the judge demanded. Then, with all the evidence having been presented, he began his concluding remarks of instruction to the gentlemen of the jury.
At that very moment, someone stood and cried out, “Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! Look at me!” The sound of the voice was intensely chilling, sad, and filled with a sense of dread all at the same time. All eyes in the courtroom were instantly riveted on the man who had spoken, who had risen from his seat, and who now was standing before the judge.
As though exclaiming in one voice, the judge, the district attorney, and some twenty people or more—all who recognized the man—shouted spontaneously, “Mayor Madeleine!”
The clerk’s candle illuminated the mayor’s face as he stood with his hat in his hand. He was extremely pale and was trembling slightly. His hair, which previously had been gray, had turned completely white during the one hour he had been there, due to the tremendous emotional stress now weighing upon his life.
Before the judge or the district attorney could utter a word, and before the guards could stop him, the mayor—whom they knew as Madeleine—was standing in front of the witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille. “Don’t you recognize me?” he asked. All three remained silent, but each indicated with a shake of his head that he did not know him. But the mayor continued, “Gentlemen of the jury, this prisoner must be released! Monsieur le Judge, have me arrested. This man is not who you think him to be. I am Jean Valjean!”
No one breathed, for the initial murmur of astonishment was now followed by a profound silence like that of the grave. Every person in the courtroom experienced a feeling somewhat akin to that of religious awe, which overcomes people when something of grandeur has been done.
In the meantime, the judge’s face was marked with a look of sympathy and sadness. He had quickly motioned to the district attorney, and they whispered a few words to one another. The judge then turned toward the public in the courtroom, and with everyone understanding his underlying suspicions, asked, “Is there a physician present?”
Without waiting for an answer, the district attorney explained to the jury, “Gentlemen, this strange incident is disturbing to each of us, I’m sure. We all know, at least by reputation, the honorable Mayor Madeleine of Montreuil. So if there is a physician in the courtroom, we agree with the judge in asking for you to attend to the fine mayor and to take him to his home.”
The mayor, however, did not allow the district attorney to finish. He interrupted with apologies but also with authority, and said, “Thank you, Monsieur le District Attorney, but I am not mad, and you are on the verge of committing a grave error. This man must be released! My conscience compels me to admit that I am the miserable criminal he is accused of being. I am the only one here who sees this matter clearly, and I am telling the truth. God is looking down from on high on what I am doing, and His approval will suffice for me. You may arrest me—here I am.
“Over the last few years, I have done my best to conceal my true identity. I have lived under another name, become rich, been appointed mayor, and tried to reenter the ranks of the honest. It appears that is not to be. The court is right in saying that Jean Valjean was a miserable and dangerous man. It is true he robbed the dear bishop and that poor lad, Little Gervais. Perhaps it was not completely his fault. However, Monsieur le Judge, a man like Valjean who has been so greatly humbled cannot argue with the providence of God, nor can he offer any advice to society in general. Yet prison often makes a convict what he is, and the terrible infamy he experiences after parole causes great damage.
“Before being imprisoned, I was a poor peasant with very little intelligence. Yet prison changed me. I was stupid, but I became a very crafty criminal. I was a dumb, cold log, but I became a blazing fire of unrest. However, just as the harsh severity of prison ruined me, the forgiveness and kindness of one man saved me.
“I realize it is difficult for you to understand what I am saying. Yet if you will search among the ashes of my fireplace, you will find the forty-sou piece I stole from Little Gervais seven years ago. I know you must think I’ve gone mad, and the fact that you don’t believe me is distressing. Nevertheless, whatever you may think—do not condemn this man! I can’t believe these three men do not remember me. If Javert were here, he would recognize me. I have nothing further to add—except, arrest me!”
Then turning to the three convicts who had witnessed against the accused, the mayor said, “Brevet, I remember the knitted suspenders with a checkered pattern you wore in prison. Chenildieu, your right shoulder has a scar caused by burning yourself with a hot coal while attempting to remove a tattoo with the letters TFP. Yet they are still visible—isn’t this true?”
“It is true,” said Chenildieu in amazement.
Speaking to Cochepaille, he said, “Isn’t it true that on your left forearm are the letters marking the day the emperor landed at Cannes: the first of March 1815? Pull up your sleeve!”
With all eyes focused on him, Cochepaille turned up his sleeve. A guard held a candle near the convict’s arm and then nodded, indicating the date indeed was there. At this the mayor turned to the judge and smiled in a way that was heartrending. It was a smile of triumph, but also one of despair. The mayor then spoke sadly, “You can plainly see that I am Jean Valjean.”
From this point forward, it was as though each person forgot the role he was to play. The judge forgot he was there to preside over the trial, the district attorney forgot he was there to prosecute the case, and the counsel for the defense forgot he was there to defend the accused. Throughout the courtroom, no longer were there any judges, accusers, guards, or spectators—there were only staring eyes and sympathetic hearts.
The mayor, now shown to be Jean Valjean, resumed, “I do not wish to disturb the court further and will now depart since you are not arresting me. I have many things to do. The district attorney knows where to find me and can have me arrested whenever he pleases.”
Valjean turned and walked toward the door of the courtroom. Not one voice was raised in objection nor one arm extended to deter him. There seemed to be something of a divine reverence about him that caused everyone to stand aside. He walked slowly and deliberately and, upon reaching the door, turned to say, “Monsieur le District Attorney, I am at your disposal and will await your command.”
Then turning to the audience, he added, “I know that all of you must consider me worthy of pity. But I should be envied, instead, for overcoming the temptation to remain silent. When I think what I was on the verge of doing … Nevertheless, I would have preferred that none of this had happened at all.”
The door opened and then was closed behind him by someone in the crowd. It was a small act of service in automatic response to a great godly deed. Less than an hour later, the jury’s verdict set poor Champmathieu free. He left, however, in his somewhat normal state of confusion, not fully understanding what had just happened to him.