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 President, 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 President, and said:—
“In the first place—”
Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.
“Prisoner,” said the district-attorney, in a severe voice; “pay 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.”
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, 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,
‘Answer!’ The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and says to me in a low voice,