‘Eh!
Why, I know that man!
He is a fagot!4 Take a good look at me, my good man!
You are Jean Valjean!’ ‘Jean Valjean! who’s Jean Valjean?’
Champmathieu feigns astonishment.
‘Don’t play the innocent dodge,’ says Brevet. ‘You are Jean Valjean!
You have been in the galleys of Toulon; it was twenty years ago; we were there together.’
Champmathieu denies it.
Parbleu!
You understand.
The case is investigated.
The thing was well ventilated for me.
This is what they discovered: This Champmathieu had been, thirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at Faverolles.
There all trace of him was lost.
A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who was a laundress; but that has not been proved.
Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean?
A pruner of trees.
Where?
At Faverolles.
Another fact.
This Valjean’s Christian name was Jean, and his mother’s surname was Mathieu.
What more natural to suppose than that, on emerging from the galleys, he should have taken his mother’s name for the purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean Mathieu?
He goes to Auvergne.
The local pronunciation turns Jean into Chan—he is called Chan Mathieu.
Our man offers no opposition, and behold him transformed into Champmathieu.
You follow me, do you not?
Inquiries were made at Faverolles.
The family of Jean Valjean is no longer there.
It is not known where they have gone.
You know that among those classes a family often disappears.
Search was made, and nothing was found.
When such people are not mud, they are dust.
And then, as the beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer any one at Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean.
Inquiries were made at Toulon.
Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean; they are Cochepaille and Chenildieu, and are sentenced for life.
They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the pretended Champmathieu.
They do not hesitate; he is Jean Valjean for them as well as for Brevet.
The same age,—he is fifty-four,—the same height, the same air, the same man; in short, it is he.
It was precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the Prefecture in Paris.
I was told that I had lost my reason, and that Jean Valjean is at Arras, in the power of the authorities.
You can imagine whether this surprised me, when I thought that I had that same Jean Valjean here.
I write to the examining judge; he sends for me; Champmathieu is conducted to me—”
“Well?” interposed M. Madeleine.
Javert replied, his face incorruptible, and as melancholy as ever:—
“Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth.
I am sorry; but that man is Jean Valjean.
I recognized him also.”
M. Madeleine resumed in, a very low voice:— “You are sure?”
Javert began to laugh, with that mournful laugh which comes from profound conviction.
“O! Sure!”