CHAPTER I.
STRATEGIC ZIGZAGS.
An observation is necessary here about the present pages and otherswhich will follow. It is now many years that the author of thiswork--forced, he regrets to say, to allude to himself--has been absentfrom Paris, and since he left that city it has been transformed, and anew city has sprung up, which is to some extent unknown to him. He neednot say that he is fond of Paris, for it is his mental birth-place.Owing to demolitions and rebuilding, the Paris of his youth, theParis which he religiously carried away in his memory, is at thishour a Paris of the past. Permit him, then, to speak of that Parisas if it still existed. It is possible that at the present day thereis neither street nor house at the spot where the author purposes tolead the reader, saying, "In such a street there is such a house." Ifthe readers like to take the trouble they can verify. As for him, hedoes not know new Paris, and writes with old Paris before his eyesin an illusion which is precious to him. It is sweet to him to fancythat something still remains of what he saw when he was in his owncountry, and that all has not faded away. So long as you move aboutin your native land you imagine that these streets are matters ofindifference to you, that these roofs and doors are as nothing, thatthese walls are strange to you, that these trees are no better than thefirst tree you come across, that these houses which you do not enterare useless to you, and that the pavement on which you walk is madeof stones and nothing more. At a later date, when you are no longerthere, you perceive that these streets are dear to you, that you missthese roofs, windows, and doors, that the walls are necessary to you,that you love the trees, that these houses, which you did not enter,you entered daily, and that you have left some of your feelings, yourblood, and your heart, on these paving-stones. All these spots whichyou no longer see, which perhaps you may never see again, and of whichyou have retained the image, assume a melancholy charm, return to youwith the sadness of an apparition, make the sacred land visible to you,and are, so to speak, the very form of France: and you love and evokethem such as they are, such as they were, obstinately refusing to makeany change in them; for you cling to the face of your country as to thecountenance of your mother. Let us be permitted, then, to speak of thepast at present: we will beg our readers to bear this in mind, and willcontinue our narrative.
Jean Valjean at once left the boulevard and entered the streets, makingas many turnings as he could, and at times retracing his steps tomake sure that he was not followed. This manœuvre is peculiar to thetracked deer, and on ground where traces are left it possesses theadvantage of deceiving huntsmen and dogs; in venery it is called a"false reimbushment." The moon was at its full, and Jean Valjean wasnot sorry for it, for as the luminary was still close to the horizonit formed large patches of light and shade in the streets. Valjean wasable to slip along the houses and walls on the dark side and watch thebright side; perhaps he did not reflect sufficiently that the dark sideescaped his notice. Still, in all the deserted lanes which border theRue de Poliveau he felt certain that no one was following him. Cosettewalked on without asking questions; the sufferings of the first sixyears of her life had introduced something passive into her nature.Moreover--and this is a remark to which we shall have to revert morethan once--she was accustomed to the singularities of her companion,and the strange mutations of fate. And then she felt in safety as shewas with him. Jean Valjean did not know any more than Cosette whitherhe was going; he trusted to God, as she trusted to him. He fanciedthat he also held some one greater than himself by the hand, and feltan invisible being guiding him. However, he had no settled idea, plan,or scheme; he was not absolutely certain that it was Javert; and thenagain it might be Javert ignorant that he was Jean Valjean. Was he notdisguised? Was he not supposed to be dead? Still, during the last fewdays several things had occurred which were becoming singular, and hewanted nothing more. He was resolved not to return to No. 50-52, and,like the animal driven from its lair, he sought a hole in which to hidehimself until he could find a lodging. Jean Valjean described severallabyrinths in the Quartier Mouffetard, which was as fast asleep as ifit were still under mediæval discipline and the yoke of the Curfew, andcombined several streets into a clever strategic system. There werelodging-houses where he now was, but he did not enter them, as he didnot find anything to suit him, and he did not suppose for a moment thatif persons were on his trail they had lost it again.
As the clock of St. Étienne du Mont struck eleven he passed thepolice office at No. 14, in the Rue de Pontoise. A few minutes after,the instinct to which we have referred made him look round, and hedistinctly saw, by the office lamp which betrayed them, three men, whowere following him rather closely, pass in turn under this lamp on thedark side of the street. One of these men turned into the office, andanother, who was in front, appeared to him decidedly suspicious.
"Come, child," he said to Cosette; and he hastened out of the Rue dePontoise. He made a circuit, skirted the Passage des Patriarches, whichwas closed at that hour, and eventually turned into the Rue des Postes.There is an open space here, where the Rollin College now stands, andinto which the Rue Neuve St. Geneviève runs.
We need hardly say that the Rue Neuve St. Geneviève is an old street,and that a post-chaise does not pass along the Rue des Postes once inten years. This street was inhabited by potters in the 13th century,and its real name is Rue des Pots.
The moon threw a bright light upon this open space, and Jean Valjeanhid himself in a doorway, calculating that if the men were stillfollowing him he could not fail to have a good look at them as theycrossed the open space. In fact, three minutes had not elapsed when themen appeared. There were now four of them, all tall, dressed in longbrown coats and round hats, and holding large sticks in their hands.They were no less alarming through their stature and huge fists, thanthrough their sinister movements in the darkness; they looked likefour spectres disguised as citizens. They stopped in the centre of thesquare, and formed a group as if consulting, and apparently undecided.The leader turned and pointed with his right hand in the directionJean Valjean had taken, while another seemed to be pointing with somedegree of obstinacy in the opposite direction. At the moment when thefirst man turned the moon lit up his face brilliantly, and Jean Valjeanrecognized Javert perfectly.