After the expiration of a rather long interval，he turned round，as he heard nothing more，and，as he raised his eyes towards the door of his chamber，he saw a light through the keyhole.
This light formed a sort of sinister star in the blackness of the door and the wall.There was evidently some one there，who was holding a candle in his hand and listening.
Several minutes elapsed thus，and the light retreated.
But he heard no sound of footsteps，which seemed to indicate that the person who had been listening at the door had removed his shoes.
Jean Valjean threw himself，all dressed as he was，on his bed，and could not close his eyes all night.
At daybreak，just as he was falling into a doze through fatigue，he was awakened by the creaking of a door which opened on some attic at the end of the corridor，then he heard the same masculine footstep which had ascended the stairs on the preceding evening.The step was approaching.
He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole，which was tolerably large，hoping to see the person who had made his way by night into the house and had listened at his door，as he passed.
It was a man，in fact，who passed，this time without pausing，in front of Jean Valjean's chamber.
The corridor was too dark to allow of the person's face being distinguished；but when the man reached the staircase，a ray of light from without made it stand out like a silhouette，and Jean Valjean had a complete view of his back.
The man was of lofty stature，clad in a long frock-coat，with a cudgel under 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 up stairs 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
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.
