CHAPTER I--THE ZIGZAGS OF STRATEGY

  An observation here becomes necessary, in view of the pages which thereader is about to peruse, and of others which will be met with furtheron.

  The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioninghimself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has beentransformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, aftera fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he lovesParis: Paris is his mind's natal city. In consequence of demolitions andreconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris which he bore awayreligiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days gone by. He mustbe permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed. It ispossible that when the author conducts his readers to a spot and says,"In such a street there stands such and such a house," neither streetnor house will any longer exist in that locality. Readers may verifythe facts if they care to take the trouble. For his own part, he isunacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the old Paris beforehis eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It is a delight to himto dream that there still lingers behind him something of that which hebeheld 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 thosestreets are a matter of indifference to you; that those windows,those roofs, and those doors are nothing to you; that those walls arestrangers to you; that those trees are merely the first encounteredhaphazard; that those houses, which you do not enter, are useless toyou; that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on,when you are no longer there, you perceive that the streets are dear toyou; that you miss those roofs, those doors; and that those walls arenecessary to you, those trees are well beloved by you; that you enteredthose houses which you never entered, every day, and that you have lefta part of your heart, of your blood, of your soul, in those pavements.All those places which you no longer behold, which you may neverbehold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take ona melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of anapparition, 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 theyare, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to nochange: for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to theface of your mother.

  May we, then, be permitted to speak of the past in the present? Thatsaid, we beg the reader to take note of it, and we continue.

  Jean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plunged into thestreets, taking the most intricate lines which he could devise,returning on his track at times, to make sure that he was not beingfollowed.

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  This manouvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where animprint of the track may be left, this manouvre possesses, among otheradvantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwingthem 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. Themoon, still very close to the horizon, cast great masses of light andshadow in the streets. Jean Valjean could glide along close to thehouses on the dark side, and yet keep watch on the light side. He didnot, perhaps, take sufficiently into consideration the fact that thedark side escaped him. Still, in the deserted lanes which lie near theRue Poliveau, he thought he felt certain that no one was following him.

  Cosette walked on without asking any questions. The sufferings of thefirst six years of her life had instilled something passive into hernature. Moreover,--and this is a remark to which we shall frequentlyhave occasion to recur,--she had grown used, without being herselfaware of it, to the peculiarities of this good man and to the freaks ofdestiny. And then she was with him, and she felt safe.

  Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette. Hetrusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemed as though he also wereclinging to the hand of some one greater than himself; he thought hefelt a being leading him, though invisible. However, he had no settledidea, no plan, no project. He was not even absolutely sure that it wasJavert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing thathe was Jean Valjean. Was not he disguised? Was not he believed to bedead? Still, queer things had been going on for several days. He wantedno 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 inwhich he might hide until he could find one where he might dwell.

  Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetardquarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of theMiddle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed; he combined invarious manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier and the RueCopeau, 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 enterone, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any onehad chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it.

  As eleven o'clock struck from Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, he was traversingthe 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 havespoken above made him turn round. At that moment he saw distinctly,thanks to the commissary's lantern, which betrayed them, three menwho were following him closely, pass, one after the other, under thatlantern, on the dark side of the street. One of the three entered thealley leading to the commissary's house. The one who marched at theirhead struck him as decidedly suspicious.

  "Come, child," he said to Cosette; and he made haste to quit the RuePontoise.

  He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which wasclosed on account of the hour, strode along the Rue de l'Épée-de-Boisand the Rue de l'Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes.

  At that time there was a square formed by the intersection ofstreets, where the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the RueNeuve-Sainte-Geneviève turns off.

  It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève is anold street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue desPostes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Posteswas inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots.

  The moon cast a livid light into this open space. Jean Valjean went intoambush in a doorway, calculating that if the men were still followinghim, he could not fail to get a good look at them, as they traversedthis illuminated space.

  In point of fact, three minutes had not elapsed when the men made theirappearance. There were four of them now. All were tall, dressed in long,brown coats, with round hats, and huge cudgels in their hands. Theirgreat stature and their vast fists rendered them no less alarmingthan did their sinister stride through the darkness. One would havepronounced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois.

  They halted in the middle of the space and formed a group, like men inconsultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared to betheir leader turned round and pointed hastily with his right hand in thedirection which Jean Valjean had taken; another seemed to indicate thecontrary direction with considerable obstinacy. At the moment when thefirst man wheeled round, the moon fell full in his face. Jean Valjeanrecognized Javert perfectly.