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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 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'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.
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