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 *, which betrayed them, three men who were following him closely, pass, one after the other, under that *, 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.
有一点得在此说明一下，这对我们即将读到的若干页以及今后还会遇到的若干页都是必要的。
本书的作者棗很抱歉，不能不谈到他本人棗离开巴黎，已经多年①。自从他离开以后，巴黎的面貌改变了。这个新型城市，在某些方面，对他来说是陌生的。他用不着说他爱巴黎，巴黎是他精神方面的故乡。由于多方面的拆除和重建，他青年时期的巴黎，他以虔敬的心情保存在记忆中的那个巴黎，现在只是旧时的巴黎了。请允许他谈那旧时的巴黎，好象它现在仍然存在一样。作者即将引着读者到某处，说“在某条街上有某所房子”，而今天在那里却可能既没有房子也没有街了。读者不妨勘查，假使不嫌麻烦的话。至于他，他不认识新巴黎，出现在他眼前的只是旧巴黎，他怀着他所珍惜的幻象而加以叙述。梦想当年在国内看见的事物，现在还有些存留下来并没有完全消失，这对他来说是件快意的事。当人们在祖国的土地上来来往往时，心里总存着一种幻想，以为那些街道和自己无关，这些窗子、这些屋顶、这些门，都和自己不相干，这些墙壁也和自己没有关系，这些树木不过是些无足轻重的树木，自己从来不进去的房屋对自己也都是无足轻重的，脚底下踩着的石块路面只不过是些石块而已。可是，日后一旦离开了祖国，你就会感到你是多么惦记那些街道，多么怀念那些屋顶、窗子和门，你会感到那些墙壁对你是不可少的，那些树木是你热爱的朋友，你也会认识到你从来不进去的那些房屋却是你现在每天都神游的地方，在那些铺路的石块上，你也曾留下了你的肝胆、你的血和你的心。那一切地方，你现在见不到了，也许永远不会再见到了，可是你还记得它们的形象，你会觉得它们妩媚到使你心痛，它们会象幽灵一样忧伤地显现在你的眼前，使你如同见到了圣地，那一切地方，正可以说是法兰西的本来面目，而你热爱它们，不时回想它们的真面目，它们旧时的真面目，并且你在这上面固执己见，不甘心任何改变，因为你眷念祖国的面貌，正如眷念慈母的音容。
①作者在一八五一年十二月，因反对拿破仑第三发动的政变，*离开法国，直到一八七○年九月拿破仑第三垮台后才回国。本书发表于一八六二年。
因此，请容许我们面对现在谈过去，这一层交代清楚以后，还得请读者牢记在心。现在我们继续谈下去。
冉阿让立即离开大路，转进小街，尽可能走着曲折的路线，有时甚至突然折回头，看是否有人跟他。
这种行动是被困的麋鹿专爱采用的。这种行动有多种好处，其中的一种便是在可以留下迹印的地方让倒着走的蹄痕把猎人和猎狗引入歧路。这在狩猎中叫做“假遁”。
那天的月亮正圆。冉阿让并不因此感到不便。当时月亮离地平线还很近，在街道上划出了大块的阴面和阳面。冉阿让可以隐在阴暗的一边，顺着房屋和墙壁朝前走，同时窥伺着明亮的一面。他也许没有充分估计到阴暗的一面也是不容忽视的。不过，他料想在波利弗街附近一带的胡同里，一定不会有人在他后面跟着。
珂赛特只走不问，她生命中最初六年的痛苦已使她的性情变得有些被动了。而且，这一特点，我们今后还会不止一次地要提到，在不知不觉中她早已对这老人的独特行为和自己命运中的离奇变幻习惯了。此外，她觉得和他在一道总是安全的。
珂赛特固然不知道他们要去什么地方，冉阿让也未必知道，他把自己交给了上帝，正如她把自己交给了他。他觉得他也一样牵着一个比他伟大的人的手，他仿佛觉得有个无影无踪的主宰在引导他。除此以外，他没有一点固定的主意，毫无打算，毫无计划。他甚至不能十分确定那究竟是不是沙威，并且即使是沙威，沙威也不一定就知道他是冉阿让。他不是已经改了装吗？人家不是早以为他死了吗？可是最近几天来发生的事却变得有些奇怪。他不能再观望了。他决计不再回戈尔博老屋。好象一头从窠里被撵出来的野兽一样，他得先找一个洞暂时躲躲，以后再慢慢地找个安身之处。
冉阿让在穆夫达区神出鬼没好象左弯右拐地绕了好几个圈子，当时区上的居民都已入睡，他们好象还在遵守中世纪的规定，受着宵禁的管制，他以各种不同的方法，把税吏街和刨花街、圣维克多木杵街和隐士井街配合起来，施展了巧妙的战略。这一带原有一些供人租用的房舍，但是他甚至进都不进去，因为他没有找到合适的。其实，他深信即使万一有人要找他的踪迹，也早已迷失方向了。
圣艾蒂安·德·蒙礼拜堂敲十一点钟时，他正从蓬图瓦兹街十四号警察哨所门前走过。不大一会儿，出自我们上面所说的那种本能，他又转身折回来。这时，他看见有三个紧跟着他的人，在街边黑暗的一面，一个接着一个，从哨所的路灯下面走过，灯光把他们照得清清楚楚。那三个人中的一个走到哨所的甬道里去了。领头走的那个人的神气十分可疑。
“来，孩子。”他对珂赛特说，同时他赶忙离开了蓬图瓦兹街。
他兜了一圈，转过长老通道，胡同口上的门因时间已晚早已关了，大步穿过了木剑街和弩弓街，走进了驿站街。
那地方有个十字路口，便是今天罗兰学校所在的地方，也就是圣热纳维埃夫新街分岔的地方。
（不用说，圣热纳维埃夫新街是条老街，驿站街在每十年中也看不见有辆邮车走过。驿站街在十三世纪时是陶器工人居住的地方，它的真名是瓦罐街。）
月光正把那十字路口照得雪亮。冉阿让隐在一个门洞里，心里打算，那几个人如果还跟着他，就一定会在月光中穿过，他便不会看不清楚。
果然，还不到三分钟，那几个人又出现了。他们现在是四个人，个个都是高大个儿，穿着棕色长大衣，戴着圆边帽，手里拿着粗棍棒。不单是他们的高身材和大拳头使人见了不安，连他们在黑暗中的那种行动也是怪阴森的，看去就象是四个变成士绅的鬼物。
他们走到十字路口*，停下来，聚拢在一起，仿佛在交换意见。其中有一个象是他们的首领，回转头来，坚决伸出右手，指着冉阿让所在的方向，另一个又好象带着固执的神气指着相反的方向。正当第一个回转头时，月光正照着他的脸，冉阿让看得清清楚楚，那确是沙威。
