Les Miserables (2 page)

But I finally had a foothold. I braced the
cart's weight on my back and pushed with all my might.

Slowly, the cart rose. At last the mud-caked wheels came into view! Men from the crowd jumped in to help. The cart was soon out of the mud, and Fauchelevent was rescued.

I got to my feet. Sweat poured down my face. I was drained. As I walked away, I could feel the eyes of the hawk upon my back.

Fauchelevent's kneecap was broken. I bought his horse and cart. I found him work as a gardener in a convent in Paris. In this way, the old man became my friend.

Fantine

One day Javert arrested a young woman for disturbing the peace. He gave her six months in prison. She had been living on the streets in terrible poverty. Her name was Fantine.

A rich young man had accused her of attacking him. But I had seen what happened from across the street. The man had put a handful of snow down the woman's back. And she had lashed out in anger.

I entered Javert's office. Fantine turned and glared at me.

“So you're the mayor, are you?” she said. Then she spat in my face in fury.

She hated Monsieur Madeleine. She believed she had lost her job because of me. But I didn't know her story.

The woman in charge of the workers in my factory learned that Fantine had a child but wasn't married. She fired her.

“Inspector Javert, this woman is to go free,” I said.

Javert was stunned.

“This woman has insulted a respectable citizen,” he said.

“I saw the whole thing from across the street,” I replied. “The respectable citizen is at fault.”

“She has insulted you too. You are the mayor of this town!” said Javert.

“That is my affair,” I said. “This woman
will not serve a single day in prison.”

“But that's not right,” said Javert.

“Enough!” I ordered. “Kindly leave your post.”

For a moment Javert didn't know what to do. Then he bowed low and left the room.

Fantine had followed the argument with interest and surprise. She wasn't angry anymore.

“I will see to it that you have what money you need,” I told her. “Your worries are over.”

This news was too much for the poor woman. She fainted at my feet. Her head burned with fever.

I took Fantine to the factory's nursing station. Her fever raged all night. But by morning it had broken.

“I'm feeling better,” said Fantine when I asked how she was.

“I've slept well. I'm sure it was nothing serious. I only wish my daughter Cosette were here with me.”

Cosette lived with a family called Thénardier. They owned a tavern in Montfermeil, a town outside Paris. Fantine sent money each month for her daughter's care.

“I left Paris poor,” Fantine told me. “I wasn't married to Cosette's father so I had no help from him. I wanted to return to my hometown, Montreuil. There was a new factory. But what could I do with Cosette? The Thénardiers offered to take her until I was settled.

“They wanted seven francs a month for her upkeep. At first, I was able to pay it. I had work in the factory. I even had money to buy new furniture.

“But then Monsieur Thénardier demanded more. He wanted twelve francs, then fifteen. He always had a good reason. Cosette needed a woolen dress for winter.
Cosette was sick. Doctor's bills and medicine put me behind in my payments.

“Things got worse when I lost my job,” she continued. “I had to get money any way I could. I sold my beautiful hair. I even sold my two front teeth, as you see.

“I owe Monsieur Thénardier so much money. I'm afraid Cosette may at this moment be living in the street!”

As Fantine finished her story, pain filled her eyes. Her face was thin and as white as the sheets she lay on.

“I will take care of everything,” I told her. “You don't have to worry.”

Fantine owed Thénardier a hundred and twenty francs. I sent three hundred and told him to use the rest to bring Cosette to me. But Thénardier wrote back asking for more money.

This man was not the kind soul Fantine believed him to be. He was a crook. He thought he had found the goose that laid
the golden
egg.
I had to get Cosette away from him as soon as possible.

Fantine's winter cough turned into pneumonia. One morning the nurse took me aside. “You'd better bring the child,” she whispered. “Her mother grows weaker every day.”

Fantine opened her eyes and asked for Cosette.

“I will get her myself if I have to,” I promised.

I wrote the Thénardiers. Fantine told me what to write. And then she signed it. The letter read:

Mansieur Thénardies,

Please hand Casette Over to the person who brings you this letter. Everythings I awe will be piad.

I send you my regards.

Tantine

But my trip was not to be. The next day my dead and buried past would rise to haunt me. And my plan to get Cosette would be delayed.

“I Am Jean Valjean”

I was in my office finishing a few things before leaving to get Cosette. Javert was announced.

“Show him in,” I said.

When Javert entered, I did not look up. I could not forget how badly he had treated Fantine.

Javert stood there for quite some time. I
don't know how he looked. My eyes were on my paper. Finally, I put my pen down.

“Well, Javert, what is it?” I asked.

“Monsieur Mayor,” began Javert. “I wish to speak with you of a serious matter. A rule has been broken.”

“What rule?” I asked.

“Someone in the lower ranks has shown disrespect for someone in the higher ranks,” he replied.

“Who is the person?” I asked.

“Myself,” said Javert.

“You?”

I did not know what Javert was getting at. But I didn't trust him.

“And who has been treated with disrespect?”

“You have, Monsieur Mayor,” replied Javert.

Now I was completely baffled. I stood up. Javert's eyes were lowered.

“I have come to ask you to dismiss me,” he continued.

My mouth was open. But I couldn't find words. Javert continued.

“You may say I can quit. But that would not be enough. I must be punished. I must be dismissed,” said Javert. “I must leave in disgrace.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked. “What have you done?”

“I will explain, Monsieur Mayor,” he said. “I was so angry with you six weeks ago, over that woman, that I reported you to the chief of police in Paris.”

Now I laughed. It was a mistake after all.

“You reported me?” I replied. “As what? As a mayor who stepped on your toes and took a prisoner from you?”

“No,” he said. “As an ex-convict.”

The words hit me like a punch in the
stomach. But Javert was still talking, staring at the floor.

“It came to me some time ago,” he said. “You look like a prisoner I knew twenty years ago. You walk with a slight limp, as he did. You have his great physical strength. I saw that when you lifted the cart.

“I suspected you of being a man called Jean Valjean.”

I dropped back into my chair. I returned to my work.

“And what did the Paris police have to say?” I asked, pretending not to be very interested.

“They said I was crazy,” replied Javert. “They told me the real Jean Valjean has been found.”

The sheet of paper fell from my hand. I looked hard into Javert's eyes. “Really?” I said without blinking.

“A man called Champmathieu has been
arrested for stealing apples,” explained Javert. “When the prisoner was moved to Arras an old inmate recognized him. He said he knew the man to be an ex-convict. He said he knew him in the Toulon prison. In Toulon they found two more convicts who said that this Champmathieu is, in fact, Jean Valjean.

“He is the same age, the same build, and looks like him. I recognized him myself when I went to see him.”

“And what does this man say?” I wanted to know.

“Valjean is in a hopeless position,” said Javert. “Oddly he doesn't rant and rave as you would expect. He acts as if he doesn't know what's going on. He says over and over: ‘My name's Champmathieu, and that is all I have to say.'

“If he is indeed Jean Valjean, it won't go well for him at the trial,” continued Javert.
“Stealing apples is a boy's prank. But this man is an ex-convict. Then there's the matter of a boy he robbed.”

The trial was to be in Arras—a day's journey away. Javert would be going as a witness.

“Sentence will be passed tomorrow evening at the latest,” he said. “Monsieur Mayor, I remind you that I must be dismissed. It was wrong for me to act as I did.”

I rose to my feet.

“You deserve to go up in the world, not down,” I said. “The offense is not so great. Stay in your present post.”

“Monsieur Mayor, I cannot agree to that,” he replied. “In my life, I have punished people when they did wrong. It was the just thing to do. Now
I
have done something wrong. You
should
punish me!

“Do not be kind to me, Monsieur Mayor,” Javert said quietly. “I do not believe in kindness. I believe in justice.”

“This is a matter for me to decide,” I said. “And I have decided. Stay where you are.”

Bowing low, Javert turned to leave. At the door he paused, “I will stay, Monsieur Mayor, until I have been replaced.”

Javert left, and I was alone with my thoughts. It was a difficult choice. I knew what waited for me in prison. Long days and years of hardship. The ball and the chain dragging at my leg. A wooden board for a bed. The whip if one so much as lifted an eyebrow.

I knew what I would be going back to. But I also knew I couldn't let an innocent man go to prison in my place. I rented a horse and buggy and left for Arras in the early morning.

I raced the horse the whole way and arrived in Arras just as Champmathieu took the stand. Because I was a mayor, I was seated at the front of the courtroom. I searched the room for Javert. But I couldn't find him.

The accused stood in front of the judge. He twisted a grimy cap in his hands. He was frightened and confused.

I recognized the three witnesses. They were men I knew years ago in Toulon. Their names were Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille.

Each one told the court that the man before them was Jean Valjean. Only Champmathieu and I knew he was innocent.

This man would soon be sent to prison for the rest of his life for crimes he didn't commit. I had to speak.

“Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille, look at me!” I shouted. “Don't you recognize
me? Don't you know who I am?”

The courtroom was silent.

“
I
am Jean Valjean,” I told the court. “I am the man.

“Brevet, remember the suspenders you used to wear?” I asked. “They had stripes. Do you remember?”

Brevet gave a start of surprise. He stared at me wide-eyed.

“And you, Chenildieu,” I continued. “You have a bad scar on your right shoulder. You burnt it on a hot stove.”

“It's the truth,” said Chenildieu.

I turned to Cochepaille. “On your left elbow, Cochepaille, there's a tattoo in blue lettering. It reads ‘1 March 1815'—the date of Napoleon's landing at Cannes. Pull up your sleeve. Show us.”

Cochepaille did as I asked. There was the tattoo, just as I had said.

“Now do you believe that I am Jean
Valjean? Champmathieu is innocent.

“I have things to do,” I said. “The Court knows who I am and where I live. You can come for me when you choose.”

I left Arras to return to Fantine.

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