Les Misérables
his arm. The formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert.
Jean Valjean might have attempted to catch another glimpse of him
through his window opening on the boulevard, but he would have been
obliged to open the window: he dared not.
It was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like himself.
Who had given him that key? What was the meaning of this?
When the old woman came to do the work, at seven o’clock in the
morning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her, but he did not
question her. The good woman appeared as usual.
As she swept up she remarked to him:—
“Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night?”
At that age, and on that boulevard, eight o’clock in the evening was
the dead of the night.
“That is true, by the way,” he replied, in the most natural tone
possible. “Who was it?”
“It was a new lodger who has come into the house,” said the old woman.
“And what is his name?”
“I don’t know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort.”
“And who is this Monsieur Dumont?”
The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered:—
“A gentleman of property, like yourself.”
Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean thought he perceived
one.
When the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a hundred francs
which he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and put it in his pocket. In
spite of all the precautions which he took in this operation so that he
might not be heard rattling silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from
his hands and rolled noisily on the floor.
When darkness came on, he descended and carefully scrutinized both
sides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The boulevard appeared to be
absolutely deserted. It is true that a person can conceal himself
behind trees.
He went upstairs again.
“Come.” he said to Cosette.
He took her by the hand, and they both went out.
BOOK FIFTH—FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK
CHAPTER I—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 manœuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where an imprint
of the track may be left, this manœuvre 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-Étienne-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’Épée-de-Bois
and the Rue de l’Arbalète, 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-Geneviève turns off.
It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève 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.
CHAPTER II—IT IS LUCKY THAT THE PONT D’AUSTERLITZ BEARS CARRIAGES
Uncertainty was at an end for Jean Valjean: fortunately it still lasted
for the men. He took advantage of their hesitation. It was time lost
for them, but gained for him. He slipped from under the gate where he
had concealed himself, and went down the Rue des Postes, towards the
region of the Jardin des Plantes. Cosette was beginning to be tired. He
took her in his arms and carried her. There were no passers-by, and the
street lanterns had not been lighted on account of there being a moon.
He redoubled his pace.
In a few strides he had reached the Goblet potteries, on the front of
which the moonlight rendered distinctly legible the ancient
inscription:—
De Goblet fils c’est ici la fabrique;
Venez choisir des cruches et des brocs,
Des pots à fleurs, des tuyaux, de la brique.
À tout venant le Cœur vend des Carreaux.14
He left behind him the Rue de la Clef, then the Fountain Saint-Victor,
skirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streets, and reached the
quay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets were
deserted. There was no one behind him. He drew a long breath.
He gained the Pont d’Austerlitz.
Tolls were still collected there at that epoch.
He presented himself at the toll office and handed over a sou.
“It is two sous,” said the old soldier in charge of the bridge. “You
are carrying a child who can walk. Pay for two.”
He paid, vexed that his passage should have aroused remark. Every
flight should be an imperceptible slipping away.
A heavy cart was crossing the Seine at the same time as himself, and on
its way, like him, to the right bank. This was of use to him. He could
traverse the bridge in the shadow of the cart.
Towards the middle of the Bridge, Cosette, whose feet were benumbed,
wanted to walk. He set her on the ground and took her hand again.