Chapter 45

The Trial of Champmathieu

The trial of Champmathieu in the town of Arras as seen through the eyes of Jean Valjean.

No one in all that throng paid any attention to him; all glances were directed towards a
single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door, in the stretch of wall on the
Président's left; on this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat a man between two
gendarmes. This man was the man. He did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither
naturally, as though they had known beforehand where that figure was. He thought he was
looking at himself, grown old; not absolutely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in
attitude and aspect, with his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that blouse, just
as it was on the day when he entered D——, full of hatred, concealing his soul in that hideous
mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the
prison. He said to himself with a shudder, "Good God! shall I become like that again?" This
creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something indescribably coarse, stupid, and
frightened about him.

The moment for closing the debate had arrived.

The Président 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 Président 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 Président, 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 Président, and said:—

"In the first place—"

Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.

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,
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?"