A man who has sunk as low as I had has nothing to blame Providence for and no advice to give society.
But, you see, the infamy I attempted to rise above can only be called... an abomination.
It is jails that make jailbirds.
Ponder that, if you will.
In the desk of my study you'll find the coin I stole from the Savoyard boy seven years ago.
You don't believe me?
Do those three still not recognize me?
Well, I recognize them.
Brevet, remember the checked woolen suspenders you wore?
Chenildieu, there's a deep scar on your right shoulder where you burned it on a red-hot stove to erase the mark for "forced labor for life."
But it's still legible.
Answer me.
Isn't that right?
That's right.
Cochepaille, in the bend of your left arm, there's a date in blue letters burned into your skin.
It's the date of the emperor's landing at Cannes:
March 1, 1815.
Pull up your sleeve.
As you can see, I am Jean Valjean.
I won't disturb this court any longer.
I have an important duty to fulfill, a pledge I made to a dying woman.
I will not run away or kill myself.
The prosecutor knows who I am and where to find me.
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