Chương Chương 110 · THE ZIGZAGS OF STRATEGY

An observation here becomes necessary, in view of the pages which the

reader is about to peruse, and of others which will be met with further

on.

The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioning

himself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been

transformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, after

a fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he

loves Paris: Paris is his mind’s natal city. In consequence of

demolitions and reconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris

which he bore away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days

gone by. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still

existed. It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a

spot and says, “In such a street there stands such and such a house,”

neither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality.

Readers may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble. For his

own part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the

old Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It

is a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him

something of that which he beheld when he was in his own country, and

that all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your native

land, you imagine that those streets are a matter of indifference to

you; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to

you; that those walls are strangers to you; that those trees are merely

the first encountered haphazard; that those houses, which you do not

enter, are useless to you; that the pavements which you tread are

merely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive

that the streets are dear to you; that you miss those roofs, those

doors; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well

beloved by you; that you entered those houses which you never entered,

every day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood,

of your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer

behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory

you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with

the melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and

are, so to speak, the very form of France, and you love them; and you

call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and

you will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of

your fatherland as to the face of your mother.

May we, then, be permitted to speak of the past in the present? That

said, we beg the reader to take note of it, and we continue.

Jean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plunged into the

streets, taking the most intricate lines which he could devise,

returning on his track at times, to make sure that he was not being

followed.

[Illustration: The Black Hunt]

This manœuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where an imprint

of the track may be left, this manœuvre possesses, among other

advantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwing

them on the wrong scent. In venery this is called _false

re-imbushment_.

The moon was full that night. Jean Valjean was not sorry for this. The

moon, still very close to the horizon, cast great masses of light and

shadow in the streets. Jean Valjean could glide along close to the

houses on the dark side, and yet keep watch on the light side. He did

not, perhaps, take sufficiently into consideration the fact that the

dark side escaped him. Still, in the deserted lanes which lie near the

Rue Poliveau, he thought he felt certain that no one was following him.

Cosette walked on without asking any questions. The sufferings of the

first six years of her life had instilled something passive into her

nature. Moreover,—and this is a remark to which we shall frequently

have occasion to recur,—she had grown used, without being herself aware

of it, to the peculiarities of this good man and to the freaks of

destiny. And then she was with him, and she felt safe.

Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette. He

trusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemed as though he also were

clinging to the hand of some one greater than himself; he thought he

felt a being leading him, though invisible. However, he had no settled

idea, no plan, no project. He was not even absolutely sure that it was

Javert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing that

he was Jean Valjean. Was not he disguised? Was not he believed to be

dead? Still, queer things had been going on for several days. He wanted

no more of them. He was determined not to return to the Gorbeau house.

Like the wild animal chased from its lair, he was seeking a hole in

which he might hide until he could find one where he might dwell.

Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard

quarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the

Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed; he combined in

various manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier and the Rue

Copeau, the Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the Rue du Puits l’Ermite.

There are lodging houses in this locality, but he did not even enter

one, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any one

had chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it.

As eleven o’clock struck from Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, he was traversing

the Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of

police, situated at No. 14. A few moments later, the instinct of which

we have spoken above made him turn round. At that moment he saw

distinctly, thanks to the commissary’s lantern, which betrayed them,

three men who were following him closely, pass, one after the other,

under that lantern, on the dark side of the street. One of the three

entered the alley leading to the commissary’s house. The one who

marched at their head struck him as decidedly suspicious.

“Come, child,” he said to Cosette; and he made haste to quit the Rue

Pontoise.

He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was

closed on account of the hour, strode along the Rue de l’Épée-de-Bois

and the Rue de l’Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes.

At that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets,

where the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the Rue

Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève turns off.

It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève is an

old street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue des

Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes

was inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots.

The moon cast a livid light into this open space. Jean Valjean went

into ambush in a doorway, calculating that if the men were still

following him, he could not fail to get a good look at them, as they

traversed this illuminated space.

In point of fact, three minutes had not elapsed when the men made their

appearance. There were four of them now. All were tall, dressed in

long, brown coats, with round hats, and huge cudgels in their hands.

Their great stature and their vast fists rendered them no less alarming

than did their sinister stride through the darkness. One would have

pronounced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois.

They halted in the middle of the space and formed a group, like men in

consultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared to be

their leader turned round and pointed hastily with his right hand in

the direction which Jean Valjean had taken; another seemed to indicate

the contrary direction with considerable obstinacy. At the moment when

the first man wheeled round, the moon fell full in his face. Jean

Valjean recognized Javert perfectly.