Les Misérables, v. 2/5: Cosette

  CHAPTER X.

  HOW JAVERT ONLY FOUND THE NEST.

  The events of which we have just seen the back, so to speak, hadoccurred under the simplest conditions. When Jean Valjean, on thenight of the day on which Javert arrested him by Fantine's death-bed,broke out of M---- jail, the police supposed that the escaped convictwould proceed to Paris. Paris is a maelstrom in which everything islost and disappears in the whirlpool of the streets: no forest canconceal a man so well as that crowd, and fugitives of every descriptionare aware of the fact. They go to Paris to be swallowed up, for thatis at times a mode of safety. The police are aware of this too, andit is at Paris they seek what they have lost elsewhere. They soughtthere the ex-mayor of M----, and Javert was summoned to assist in thesearch, and in truth powerfully assisted in recapturing Jean Valjean.The zeal and intelligence he displayed in this office were noticedby M. Chabouillet, Secretary to the Prefecture under Count Anglès,and this gentleman, who had before been a friend to Javert, had thepolice-inspector of M---- appointed to the Paris district. Here Javertproved himself variously and--let us say it, though the word seemsinappropriate when applied to such services--honorably useful.

  He thought no more of Jean Valjean--with these dogs ever on the huntthe wolf of to-day causes the wolf of yesterday to be forgotten--untilin December, 1823, he, who never read newspapers, read one. But Javert,who was a legitimist, was anxious to learn the details of the triumphalentry of the "Prince Generalissimo" into Bayonne. When he had finishedthe article that interested him a name--the name of Jean Valjean atthe foot of a column--attracted him. The newspaper announced that theconvict Jean Valjean was dead, and published the fact in such formalterms that Javert did not doubt it. He musing said, "That is the bestbolt;" then threw away the paper, and thought no more of the subject.Some time after, it happened that a report was sent by the Prefectureof the Seine et Oise to that of Paris about the abduction of a child,which took place, it was said, under peculiar circumstances, in theparish of Montfermeil. A little girl of seven or eight years of age,who had been intrusted by her mother to a publican in the town, hadbeen stolen by a stranger. The child answered to the name of Cosette,and her mother was a certain Fantine, who had died in an hospital, itwas not known when or where. This report passed under Javert's eyes,and rendered him thoughtful. The name of Fantine was familiar to him;he remembered that Jean Valjean had made him laugh by asking him fora respite of three days to go and fetch this creature's child. Heremembered that Jean Valjean was arrested at Paris at the very momentwhen he was getting into the Montfermeil coach, and some facts had ledto the supposition at the time that he had taken a trip to the vicinityof the village on the previous day, for he had not been seen in thevillage itself. What was his business at Montfermeil? No one was ableto guess; but Javert now understood it. Fantine's daughter was there,and Jean Valjean had gone to fetch her. Now this child had just beenstolen by a stranger. Who could the stranger be? Could it be JeanValjean? But he was dead. Javert, without saying a word to anybody,took the coach at the "Pewter Platter," and went off to Montfermeil.

  He expected to find here a great clearing up, but only found a greatobscurity. At the beginning, the Thénardier, in their vexation, hadchattered, and the disappearance of the Lark produced a sensation inthe village. There were at once several versions of the story, whichfinally settled down into an abduction, and hence the police report.Still, after he had got over his first outburst of temper, Thénardier,with his admirable instinct, very speedily comprehended that it isnever useful to set the authorities at work, and that his complaintabout the abduction of Cosette would have the primary result of fixingthe flashing gaze of justice upon himself, and many dark matters he wasmixed up in. The thing that owls least like is to have a candle broughtto them. And then, again, how would he get out of the fifteen hundredfrancs which he had received? He stopped short, put a gag in his wife'smouth, and affected amazement when people spoke about "the stolenchild." He did not at all understand; he had certainly complainedat the first moment about his little darling being taken from him sosuddenly; he should have liked to keep her for two or three days longerthrough affection; but it was her grandfather who had come to fetchher in the most natural way in the world. He added the "grandfather,"which produced a good effect, and it was on this story that Javertfell upon reaching Montfermeil: the grandfather caused Jean Valjean tofade out of memory. Javert, however, drove a few questions like probesinto Thénardier's story: "Who was this grandfather, and what was hisname?" Thénardier answered simply, "He is a rich farmer; I saw hispassport, and I fancy his name was M. Guillaume Lambert." Lambert is arespectable and most reassuring name, and so Javert returned to Paris."Jean Valjean is really dead," he said to himself, "and I am an ass."

  He was beginning to forget the whole affair again, when in the courseof March, 1824, he heard talk of a peculiar character who lived in theparish of St. Médard, and was surnamed the "beggar who gives alms."This man was said to be an annuitant, whose name no one exactly knew,and who lived alone with a little girl of eight years of age, whoknew nothing about herself except that she came from Montfermeil.Montfermeil! that name constantly returned, and made Javert prickup his ears. An old begging spy, an ex-beadle, to whom this personwas very charitable, added a few more details. "He was a very sternperson; he never went out till night; he spoke to nobody, exceptto the poor now and then, and let no one approach him. He wore ahorrible old yellow coat, which was worth several millions, as it waslined all through with bank-notes." This decidedly piqued Javert'scuriosity. In order to see this annuitant closer without startlinghim, he one day borrowed the beadle's rags and the place where the oldspy crouched every evening, snuffling his orisons through his nose,and spying between his prayers. "The suspicious individual" reallycame up to Javert, thus travestied, and gave him alms. At this momentJavert raised his head, and the shock which Jean Valjean received onfancying that he recognized Javert, Javert received on fancying thathe recognized Jean Valjean. Still, the darkness might have deceivedhim; and Jean Valjean's death was official. Javert felt serious doubts;and when in doubt, Javert, a scrupulous man, never put his hand onthe person's collar. He followed his man to No. 50-52, and made theold woman talk, which was no difficult task. She confirmed the factof the great-coat lined with millions, and told the story about thethousand-franc note; she had seen it; she had felt it! Javert hired aroom, and took possession of it that same night. He listened at thedoor of the mysterious lodger, in the hope of hearing his voice; butJean Valjean saw his candle through the key-hole, and foiled the spy byholding his tongue.

  On the next day Jean Valjean decamped; but the noise of the five-francpiece which he let drop was noticed by the old woman, who supposed thathe was about to leave, and hastened to warn Javert. Hence, when JeanValjean left the house at night, Javert was waiting for him behind thetrees with two men. Javert had requested assistance at the Prefecture,but had not mentioned the name of the individual whom he hoped toseize. That was his secret, and he kept it for three reasons: first,because the slightest indiscretion might give Jean Valjean the alarm;secondly, because laying hands on an old escaped convict supposed to bedead, on a condemned man whom justice had already classified foreveramong "the malefactors of the most dangerous class," was a magnificentsuccess, which the older policemen of Paris would certainly not leaveto a new-comer like Javert,--and he was afraid lest he might be robbedof his galley-slave; lastly, because Javert, having artistic tastes,was fond of anything unexpected. He hated those successes which aredeflowered by being talked of a long time beforehand, and he liked toelaborate his masterpieces in the darkness and suddenly unveil them.Javert followed Jean Valjean from tree to tree, and then from streetcorner to street corner, and had not once taken his eye off him; evenat the moment when Jean Valjean fancied himself the safest, Javert'seye was upon him. Why did Javert not arrest him, though? Because he wasstill in doubt. It must be borne in mind that at this period the policewere not exactly at their ease, and the free press annoyed them. A fewarbitra
ry arrests, denounced by the newspapers, had found an echo inthe Chambers, and rendered the Prefecture timid. Attacking individualliberty was a serious matter; the agents were afraid of being deceived,for the Prefect made them answerable, and a mistake was dismissal.Just imagine the effect which would have been produced in Paris by thefollowing short paragraph reproduced by twenty papers,--"Yesterdayan old white-haired grandfather, a respectable fund-holder, who wastaking a walk with his granddaughter, eight years of age, was arrestedand taken to the House of Detention as an escaped convict." Let usrepeat also that Javert had scruples of his own; the warnings of hisconscience were added to those of the Prefect, and he really doubted.Jean Valjean had his back turned to him, and was walking in the dark;sorrow, anxiety, despondency, the fresh misfortune of being compelledto fly by night and seek a chance refuge for Cosette and himself inParis, the necessity of regulating his pace by that of a child,--allthis had unconsciously changed Jean Valjean's demeanor, and impartedto him such a senility, that the very police, incarnated in Javert,might be deceived and were deceived. The impossibility of approachingclose, his attire as an old émigré tutor, Thénardier's statementwhich made him out a grandpapa, and lastly, the belief in his deathat the galleys, added to the uncertainty that clouded Javert's mind.For a moment he had the idea of suddenly asking for his papers; butif the man was not Jean Valjean, and if he were not a respectablefund-holder, he was in all probability some fellow deeply entangled inthe meshes of Parisian crime; some leader of a band who gave alms tohide his other talents, and who had his "pals," his accomplices, andhis lurking-places, where he could conceal himself. All the turningsthis man made in the streets seemed to indicate that all was not quiteright with him, and arresting him too quickly would be "killing thegoose with the golden eggs." Where was the harm of waiting? Javert feltquite certain that he could not escape. He walked along, therefore,in great perplexity, asking himself a hundred questions about thisenigmatical personage. It was not till some time after that hedecidedly recognized Jean Valjean in the Rue Pontoise, by the brilliantlight that poured from a wine-shop.

  There are only two beings in the world that thrill profoundly,--themother who recovers her child, and the tiger that finds its preyagain; but Javert had the same thrill. So soon as he had positivelyrecognized Jean Valjean, the formidable convict, he noticed that hehad only two companions, and asked for support at the police office inthe Rue Pontoise. Before catching hold of a thorn-bush, people put ongloves. This delay and the halt at the Rollin Square to arrange withhis agents all but made him lose the trail; but he quickly guessedthat Jean Valjean wished to place the river between himself and hishunters. He hung his head and reflected, like a blood-hound puttingits nose to the ground to lift the scent, and then, with the powerfulcorrectness of his instinct, walked to the Austerlitz bridge. Oneremark of the toll-collector's put him on his track. "Have you seena man with a little girl?" "I made him pay two sous," the collectoranswered. Javert reached the bridge just in time to see Jean Valjeanleading Cosette across the moonlit square; he saw him enter the Rue duChemin Vert St. Antoine; he thought of the blind alley arranged therelike a trap, and the sole issue from it by the little Rue Picpus; andin order to stop the earth, as sportsmen say, he sent off a policemanby a detour to guard the issue. A patrol, which was returning to thearsenal, happening to pass, he requested its assistance; for in suchgames as this soldiers are trumps, and, moreover, it is a principlethat, in forcing a boar from its lair, the hunter must be scientific,and there must be a strong pack of hounds. These arrangements made,Javert, feeling that Jean Valjean was caught between the blind alley onthe right, his own agent on the left, and himself behind, took a pinchof snuff. Then he began playing and enjoying a delicious and infernalmoment; he let his man go before him, knowing that he held him, butdesiring to defer as long as possible the moment of arresting him;delighted at feeling him caught, and at seeing him free, and watchinghim with the pleasure of the spider that lets the fly flutter for awhile, and the cat that lets the mouse run. The claw and the talonhave a monstrous sensuality in the fluttering movements of the animalimprisoned in their prisons. What a delight such a strangling mustbe! Javert was playing. The meshes of his net were so solidly made,he was certain of success, and now he only needed to close his hand.Accompanied as he was, the idea of resistance was impossible, howeverenergetic, vigorous, and desperate Jean Valjean might be.

  Javert advanced slowly, examining and searching as he passed everycorner of the street, like the pockets of a thief; but when he reachedthe centre of the web he did not find his fly. We can imagine hisexasperation. He questioned his watchmen, but they quietly declaredthat they had not seen the man pass. It happens at times that a stagwill escape with the pack at its heels, and in such cases the oldesthuntsmen know not what to say. In a disappointment of this natureArtonge exclaimed,--"It is not a stag, but a sorcerer." Javert wouldhave gladly uttered the same cry, for his disappointment was midwaybetween despair and fury.

  It is certain that errors were committed by Napoleon in the Russianwar, by Alexander in the Indian war, by Cæsar in his African war, byCyrus in the Scythian war, and by Javert in his campaign against JeanValjean. He was probably wrong in hesitating to recognize the ex-galleyslave, for a glance ought to have been sufficient for him. He waswrong in not apprehending him purely and simply at No. 50-52. He waswrong in not arresting him, upon recognition, in the Rue Pontoise.He was wrong to arrange with his colleagues in the bright moonlight,although certainly advice is useful, and it is as well to interrogatethose dogs which deserve credence. But the hunter cannot take too manyprecautions when he is following restless animals, like the wolf andthe convict; and Javert, by displaying too much anxiety in settingthe blood-hounds on the track, alarmed his game and started it off.Above all, he was wrong, on finding the trail again of the Austerlitzbridge, in playing the dangerous and foolish trick of holding such aman by a string. He fancied himself stronger than he really was, andthat he could play with the lion as if it were a mouse. At the sametime he imagined himself too weak when he fancied that he must procurehelp; it was a fatal precaution, and the loss of precious time. Javertcommitted all these faults, but for all that was not the less one ofthe cleverest and most certain spies that ever existed. He was, inthe full acceptation of the term, a dog that runs cunning; but whereis the man who is perfect? Great strategists have their eclipses, andgreat follies are often made, like stout ropes, of a multitude offibres. Take the cable thread by thread, catch hold of all the smalldetermining motives separately, and you break them one after the other,and say to yourself, "It is only that;" but twist them together and youhave an enormity. It is Attila hesitating between Marcianus in the Eastand Valentinianus in the West; it is Hannibal delaying at Capua; it isDanton falling asleep at Arcis-sur-Aube.

  However this may be, even at the moment when Javert perceived that JeanValjean had slipped from his clutches he did not lose his head. Certainthat the convict could not be very far off, he established watches,organized mousetraps and ambuscades, and beat up the quarter the wholenight through. The first thing he saw was the cut cord of the lantern.This was a valuable sign, which, however, led him astray so far that itmade him turn all his attention to the Genrot blind alley. There arein this alley low walls, surrounding gardens which skirt open fields,and Jean Valjean had evidently fled in that direction. The truth is,that if he had gone a little farther down the blind alley he would inall probability have done so and been a lost man. Javert explored thegardens and fields as if looking for a needle, and at daybreak he lefttwo intelligent men on duty, and returned to the Prefecture of Police,looking as hang-dog as a spy captured by a robber.

  BOOK VI