1.C.5.1. 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.
This manoeuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil
where an imprint of the track may be left, this manoeuvre
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-Etienne-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
quite 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'Epee-de-Bois and the Rue de l'Arbalete, 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-Genevieve turns off.
It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve
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.