Champmathieu More and More Astonished — Les Misérables

It is he. The clerk's lamp lights his face. His coat is carefully buttoned; he is very pale; he trembles slightly. The hair that was still gray on his arrival is now entirely white; it has turned white in the hour he sat there. The voice was so heart-rending, the man so calm, that they do not at first understand. Even before the President can speak he has advanced toward the three. Do you not recognize me? They indicate that they do not. Cochepaille makes a military salute. He turns to the jury, gentle: order the prisoner released; have me arrested; he is not the man; it is I; I am Jean Valjean. Not a mouth breathes. A silence like the grave. Religious terror, as when something grand has been done.

The President's face is stamped with sympathy and sadness. Is there a physician present? The district-attorney: the honourable mayor; if there is a physician, conduct him to his home. He interrupts, suave and authoritative. He is not mad. Release this man. He is fulfilling a duty. God looks down and that suffices. He concealed himself, became rich, became a mayor, tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest; it seems that is not to be done. He robbed the Bishop; he robbed Little Gervais; they were right; perhaps it was not altogether his fault. The galleys make the convict what he is; he was a block of wood and became a firebrand; later, indulgence saved him as severity had ruined him. They will find in the ashes the forty-sou piece. The district-attorney shakes his head. You say he has gone mad; that is distressing. Do not at least condemn this man. He wishes Javert were here; he would recognize him.

He turns to the three. Brevet: the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern. Brevet starts and surveys him frightened. Chenildieu: the deep burn on the right shoulder, laid against the chafing-dish to efface T. F. P., still visible. It is true. Cochepaille: near the bend of the left arm, a date in burnt powder, the landing at Cannes, the first of March, 1815. Pull up your sleeve. A gendarme holds a light. There is the date. He turns to the hall with a smile that is triumph and despair. You see plainly that I am Jean Valjean. There are no longer judges or gendarmes, only staring eyes. The crowd understands, as by an electric revelation, a man delivering himself up so that another may not be condemned in his stead. He will not disturb the court further. He has many things to do. They can arrest him when they like. Not an arm is extended. The door is open. I am at your command. All of you consider me worthy of pity, do you not? When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur. He withdraws. Less than an hour later the verdict frees Champmathieu, who goes off in a state of stupefaction, thinking that all men are fools, and comprehending nothing of this vision.