. . . the day after my visit from Charles Darbeau (which was also, so I am informed the death of (several words inked out) the prisoner numbered 57884) I was visited by M. Thierry himself. He was most complimentary about my conduct and treated my with the condescension which he had always been good enough to show me. I was made bold enough by this to ask if I might return to my duties. I did so on the 4th or 5th, I believe.
As for Jean Valjean, I was only to see him once more during my time at Toulon. He was not deemed fit to return to work until the New Year of 1801, and I happened to be present on his first day out on fatigues. I am not sure why – put it down to the inexperience of youth – but I felt the need to approach him. I recall that he flinched away as I drew near to him, as if expecting a blow. Of course, I did not strike him. All I did was tell him that I was watching him, that I knew who had schooled him – far better than most did I know that! – and so I knew what he was capable of. I told him to bear in mind that I would always be watching him.
As it happened, I was transferred back to Blanchard's ward shortly after and so was unable to fulfil my promise. In 1802, as you know, I was to leave Toulon all together in order to begin work in the service in which I am honoured to still find myself today.
All this is, of course, by the by. Suffice to say that I never saw Jean Valjean again until . . . I might say "until I came to M-sur-M" but that would be to over simplify matters. I no more knew Madeleine to be Valjean when I first arrived there than I know how to speak German. However, I can recognise German when I hear it spoken and, in much the same way I knew that Madeleine was not what he should be.
But, of course, you will need to know when I first knew that Madeleine was Valjean, rather than simply believing it likely.
What happened was this: One day in December last an old carter named Fauchelevant was involved in an accident. As I recall, his horse had spooked at something and bolted, losing its footing and falling down, overturning the loaded cart as it went. Fauchelevent, by a great stroke of ill-luck, ended up trapped underneath the cart with its whole weight pressing straight down across his chest. Now, this would have been all very well in summer when the weather was dry, but it had been raining solidly for at least a fortnight and the unpaved backstreets of the town where quite as much river as road, which made things far worse.
By chance, I had been nearby at the time of the accident and so was able to be on hand almost immediately. I found myself in the most wretched and difficult situation – Pa Fauchelevent was trapped between the wheel of the cart with its weight, as I have said, bearing down directly on his chest and the state of the road was such that the cart was gradually sinking down into the mud, increasing the pressure on his ribs with every passing second. Meanwhile, the nag was thrashing about between the shafts, attempting and failing to get back on its feet, and this movement only help to make the cart sink further. The first thing I did, then, was to cut the beast's traces, and then turned to see if it would be possible to pull Fauchelevent clear if the movement was quick enough. Myself and a young mason named Savy took hold of Pa Fauchelevent to try, but before we had moved him a hair's breadth it became clear that there would be no possibility of our doing it fast enough. Another onlooker suggested that he and Savy could shoulder up the cart, allowing me to pull Fauchelevent clear. I was more than ready to accept his suggestion until Savy, who spent his life shifting and levering heavy objects, voiced doubts that this would work either. He said that the only way to lift the cart would be from underneath, either by means of a jack or by a man crawling underneath it performing the same action by lifting it on his back. I had no reason to doubt Savy's professional judgment, but looking at the weight and size of the cart I knew that there was no way I - and I am by no means a small man – or any of the bystanders, despite their being strong working men – masons, farmers, soldiers – could do it. I shook my head and sent Savy off for a jack.
Seeing as the situation was, for the time being at least, hopeless the bystanders fell back slightly, still watching with avid, if resigned, fascination. I could not resign myself so easily to the role of a simple spectator – after all, both a man's life and the credibility of my office were at stake. I paced around in an agitated fashion, searching for any improvements that might be made. I noticed that, despite my having cut its traces, Fauchelevent's old jade of a horse was still thrashing pitifully in the mud, evidently having broken a leg. Unarmed myself, I borrow a gun from one of the soldiers who had gathered on the spot. I had to get down in the mud with the animal in order to calm it sufficiently to have a clean shot. Finally, it was still and I levelled the gun up between its eyes. Then I heard a voice come from the edge of the crowd saying, "This can't wait a quarter of an hour". I pulled the trigger, looked up, caught sight of the speaker and suddenly I knew.
"It'll be too late," Madeleine continued, "Don't you see the cart's sinking deeper?"
"No, no, that had never occurred to us," I though savagely, hauling myself up from the mud. The townsfolk had gathered around him, looking at him stupidly.
"Look," said Madeleine, "There's still room for a man to crawl under the cart and lift it on his back."
"Well now, Jean Valjean, I have you now," I thought to myself, recalling the freakish strength which 24601 had exhibited on fatigues. After all, if we can do things ourselves, we often believe that others can also – maybe Jean Valjean did not realise that his strength was that unusual?
Obviously, no one in the crowd moved.
"Is there anyone here with the muscle and the heart? I'm offering five Louis d'Or!"
No one moved.
"Ten," for a moment I forgot about Jean Valjean, I was simply so angry with Madeleine. That sort of behaviour is utterly typical of him. If there's a problem, throw money at it. Just as stupid as the lacksidaisical, disorganised, self-indulgent 'kindness' he inflicts upon people.
"Come! Thirty!"
How could he be so stupid? Walking towards him, I said, "It's not that we don't want to" Madeleine/24601 turned and glared at me – for interrupting his theatrics – but I continued. "It's a question of strength. You need to be tremendously strong to lift a load like that on your back."
He looked at me as if that had never occurred to him before. I hazarded another remark, testing the water and pressing my earlier intuition: "I have known only one man, Monsieur Madeleine, capable of doing what you ask."
He blenched slightly and I continued, very slowly and lightly: "He was a convict."
My potential Jean Valjean manged to keep his cool at that, but when I added, "In the Toulon galleys" he gave a discernable shudder.
We were staring at each other in a manner that was beyond the mere reading of faces, and I felt another jolt of recognition. Then we were interrupted by another cry of pain from Pa Fauchelevent and Madeleine, as if recalling where he was and who he was meant to be, called out, "Is there no-one prepared to save this man's life for thirty Louis d'Or?"
I have only known one man capable of doing the work of a jack. The man I mentioned" I answered him, speaking both for my own suspicions and on behalf of the circled of bystanders, now cowed and silent. Madeleine had made them ashamed that they could not rescue Fauchelvant, although he was asking the impossible of them.
And then he did it. Madeleine did the impossible. In a matter of minutes the cart was raised up on his back, Fauchelevent was pulled clear and there was no real doubt left in my mind. When he got out of the mud and back on his feet, Jean Valjean looked at me very sadly, and I could see that he knew as well as I did. No further action was required on my part. Yet – and I am almost ashamed of myself for it – I still felt the need to test the ice between us. As I handed him back his coat, when he had given me before attempting the rescue, I began to hum an old prison song. If you have, Sir, been to Toulon you may have heard it – "Where are the children who bear my name?" etc. It gave me childish pleasure to see how he grew pale under his caked layer of mud.
Well, since then there has been little for me to do but wait. After all, certainty in my eyes is not the same as certainty in the eyes of the law. I had to trust that the opportune moment would arise which is what, Sir, I relate to you now . . .