¡¶BOOK FIFTH CHAPTER II.THIS WILL KILL THAT. Page 1¡·
Our lady readers will pardon us if we pause for a moment to seek what could have been the thought concealed beneath those enigmatic words of the archdeacon: "This will kill that.The book will kill the edifice."
To our mind, this thought had two faces.In the first place, it was a priestly thought.It was the affright of the priest in the presence of a new agent, the printing press.It was the terror and dazzled amazement of the men of the sanctuary, in the presence of the luminous press of Gutenberg.It was the pulpit and the manuscript taking the alarm at the printed word: something similar to the stupor of a sparrow which should behold the angel Legion unfold his six million wings. It was the cry of the prophet who already hears emancipated humanity roaring and swarming; who beholds in the future, intelligence sapping faith, opinion dethroning belief, the world shaking off Rome.It was the prognostication of the philosopher who sees human thought, volatilized by the press, evaporating from the theocratic recipient.It was the terror of the soldier who examines the brazen battering ram, and says:--"The tower will crumble." It signified that one power was about to succeed another power.It meant, "The press will kill the church."
But underlying this thought, the first and most simple one, no doubt, there was in our opinion another, newer one, a corollary of the first, less easy to perceive and more easy to contest, a view as philosophical and belonging no longer to the priest alone but to the savant and the artist.It was a presentiment that human thought, in changing its form, was about to change its mode of expression; that the dominant idea of each generation would no longer be written with the same matter, and in the same manner; that the book of stone, so solid and so durable, was about to make way for the book of paper, more solid and still more durable.In this connection the archdeacon's vague formula had a second sense. It meant, "printing will kill architecture."
In fact, from the origin of things down to the fifteenth century of the Christian era, inclusive, architecture is the great book of humanity, the principal expression of man in his different stages of development, either as a force or as an intelligence.
When the memory of the first races felt itself overloaded, when the mass of reminiscences of the human race became so heavy and so confused that speech naked and flying, ran the risk of losing them on the way, men transcribed them on the soil in a manner which was at once the most visible, most durable, and most natural.They sealed each tradition beneath a monument.
The first monuments were simple masses of rock, "which the iron had not touched," as Moses says.Architecture began like all writing.It was first an alphabet.Men planted a stone upright, it was a letter, and each letter was a hieroglyph, and upon each hieroglyph rested a group of ideas, like the capital on the column.This is what the earliest races did everywhere, at the same moment, on the surface of the entire world.We find the "standing stones" of the Celts in Asian Siberia; in the pampas of America.
Later on, they made words; they placed stone upon stone, they coupled those syllables of granite, and attempted some combinations.The Celtic dolmen and cromlech, the Etruscan tumulus, the Hebrew galgal, are words.Some, especially the tumulus, are proper names.Sometimes even, when men had a great deal of stone, and a vast plain, they wrote a phrase. The immense pile of Karnac is a complete sentence.
At last they made books.Traditions had brought forth symbols, beneath which they disappeared like the trunk of a tree beneath its foliage; all these symbols in which humanity placed faith continued to grow, to multiply, to intersect, to become more and more complicated; the first monuments no longer sufficed to contain them, they were overflowing in every part; these monuments hardly expressed now the primitive tradition, simple like themselves, naked and prone upon the earth.The symbol felt the need of expansion in the edifice. Then architecture was developed in proportion with human thought; it became a giant with a thousand heads and a thousand arms, and fixed all this floating symbolism in an eternal, visible, palpable form.While Daedalus, who is force, measured; while Orpheus, who is intelligence, sang;--the pillar, which is a letter; the arcade, which is a syllable; the pyramid, which is a word,--all set in movement at once by a law of geometry and by a law of poetry, grouped themselves, combined, amalgamated, descended, ascended, placed themselves side by side on the soil, ranged themselves in stories in the sky, until they had written under the dictation of the general idea of an epoch, those marvellous books which were also marvellous edifices: the pagoda of Eklinga, the Rhamseion of Egypt, the Temple of Solomon.
The generating idea, the word, was not only at the foundation of all these edifices, but also in the form.The temple of Solomon, for example, was not alone the binding of the holy book; it was the holy book itself.On each one of its concentric walls, the priests could read the word translated and manifested to the eye, and thus they followed its transformations from sanctuary to sanctuary, until they seized it in its last tabernacle, under its most concrete form, which still belonged to architecture: the arch.Thus the word was enclosed in an edifice, but its image was upon its envelope, like the human form on the coffin of a mummy.
And not only the form of edifices, but the sites selected for them, revealed the thought which they represented, according as the symbol to be expressed was graceful or grave. Greece crowned her mountains with a temple harmonious to the eye; India disembowelled hers, to chisel therein those monstrous subterranean pagodas, borne up by gigantic rows of granite elephants.
Thus, during the first six thousand years of the world, from the most immemorial pagoda of Hindustan, to the cathedral of Cologne, architecture was the great handwriting of the human race.And this is so true, that not only every religious symbol, but every human thought, has its page and its monument in that immense book.
All civilization begins in theocracy and ends in democracy. This law of liberty following unity is written in architecture. For, let us insist upon this point, masonry must not be thought to be powerful only in erecting the temple and in expressing the myth and sacerdotal symbolism; in inscribing in hieroglyphs upon its pages of stone the mysterious tables of the law.If it were thus,--as there comes in all human society a moment when the sacred symbol is worn out and becomes obliterated under freedom of thought, when man escapes from the priest, when the excrescence of philosophies and systems devour the face of religion,--architecture could not reproduce this new state of human thought; its leaves, so crowded on the face, would be empty on the back; its work would be mutilated; its book would he incomplete.But no.
Let us take as an example the Middle Ages, where we see more clearly because it is nearer to us.During its first period, while theocracy is organizing Europe, while the Vatican is rallying and reclassing about itself the elements of a Rome made from the Rome which lies in ruins around the Capitol, while Christianity is seeking all the stages of society amid the rubbish of anterior civilization, and rebuilding with its ruins a new hierarchic universe, the keystone to whose vault is the priest--one first hears a dull echo from that chaos, and then, little by little, one sees, arising from beneath the breath of Christianity, from beneath the hand of the barbarians, from the fragments of the dead Greek and Roman architectures, that mysterious Romanesque architecture, sister of the theocratic masonry of Egypt and of India, inalterable emblem of pure catholicism, unchangeable hieroglyph of the papal unity.All the thought of that day is written, in fact, in this sombre, Romanesque style.One feels everywhere in it authority, unity, the impenetrable, the absolute, Gregory VII.; always the priest, never the man; everywhere caste, never the people.
But the Crusades arrive.They are a great popular movement, and every great popular movement, whatever may be its cause and object, always sets free the spirit of liberty from its final precipitate.New things spring into life every day.Here opens the stormy period of the Jacqueries, pragueries, and Leagues.Authority wavers, unity is divided. Feudalism demands to share with theocracy, while awaiting the inevitable arrival of the people, who will assume the part of the lion: ~Quia nominor leo~.Seignory pierces through sacerdotalism; the commonality, through seignory.The face of Europe is changed.Well! the face of architecture is changed also.Like civilization, it has turned a page, and the new spirit of the time finds her ready to write at its dictation. It returns from the crusades with the pointed arch, like the nations with liberty.
Then, while Rome is undergoing gradual dismemberment, Romanesque architecture dies.The hieroglyph deserts the cathedral, and betakes itself to blazoning the donjon keep, in order to lend prestige to feudalism.The cathedral itself, that edifice formerly so dogmatic, invaded henceforth by the bourgeoisie, by the community, by liberty, escapes the priest and falls into the power of the artist.The artist builds it after his own fashion.Farewell to mystery, myth, law.Fancy and caprice, welcome.provided the priest has his basilica and his altar, he has nothing to say.The four walls belong to the artist.The architectural book belongs no longer to the priest, to religion, to Rome; it is the property of poetry, of imagination, of the people.Hence the rapid and innumerable transformations of that architecture which owns but three centuries, so striking after the stagnant immobility of the Romanesque architecture, which owns six or seven. Nevertheless, art marches on with giant strides.popular genius amid originality accomplish the task which the bishops formerly fulfilled.Each race writes its line upon the book, as it passes; it erases the ancient Romanesque hieroglyphs on the frontispieces of cathedrals, and at the most one only sees dogma cropping out here and there, beneath the new symbol which it has deposited.The popular drapery hardly permits the religious skeleton to be suspected.One cannot even form an idea of the liberties which the architects then take, even toward the Church.There are capitals knitted of nuns and monks, shamelessly coupled, as on the hall of chimney pieces in the palais de Justice, in paris.There is Noah's adventure carved to the last detail, as under the great portal of Bourges. There is a bacchanalian monk, with ass's ears and glass in hand, laughing in the face of a whole community, as on the lavatory of the Abbey of Bocherville.There exists at that epoch, for thought written in stone, a privilege exactly comparable to our present liberty of the press.It is the liberty of architecture.
This liberty goes very far.Sometimes a portal, a fa?ade, an entire church, presents a symbolical sense absolutely foreign to worship, or even hostile to the Church.In the thirteenth century, Guillaume de paris, and Nicholas Flamel, in the fifteenth, wrote such seditious pages.Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie was a whole church of the opposition.
Thought was then free only in this manner; hence it never wrote itself out completely except on the books called edifices. Thought, under the form of edifice, could have beheld itself burned in the public square by the hands of the executioner, in its manuscript form, if it had been sufficiently imprudent to risk itself thus; thought, as the door of a church, would have been a spectator of the punishment of thought as a book.Having thus only this resource, masonry, in order to make its way to the light, flung itself upon it from all quarters. Hence the immense quantity of cathedrals which have covered Europe--a number so prodigious that one can hardly believe it even after having verified it.All the material forces, all the intellectual forces of society converged towards the same point: architecture.In this manner, under the pretext of building churches to God, art was developed in its magnificent proportions.
Then whoever was born a poet became an architect. Genius, scattered in the masses, repressed in every quarter
under feudalism as under a ~testudo~ of brazen bucklers, finding no issue except in the direction of architecture,--gushed forth through that art, and its Iliads assumed the form of cathedrals.All other arts obeyed, and placed themselves under the discipline of architecture.They were the workmen of the great work.The architect, the poet, the master, summed up in his person the sculpture which carved his fa?ades, painting which illuminated his windows, music which set his bells to pealing, and breathed into his organs.There was nothing down to poor poetry,--properly speaking, that which persisted in vegetating in manuscripts,--which was not forced, in order to make something of itself, to come and frame itself in the edifice in the shape of a hymn or of prose; the same part, after all, which the tragedies of AEschylus had played in the sacerdotal festivals of Greece; Genesis, in the temple of Solomon.
Thus, down to the time of Gutenberg, architecture is the principal writing, the universal writing.In that granite book, begun by the Orient, continued by Greek and Roman antiquity, the Middle Ages wrote the last page.Moreover, this phenomenon of an architecture of the people following an architecture of caste, which we have just been observing in the Middle Ages, is reproduced with every analogous movement in the human intelligence at the other great epochs of history.Thus, in order to enunciate here only summarily, a law which it would require volumes to develop: in the high Orient, the cradle of primitive times, after Hindoo architecture came phoenician architecture, that opulent mother of Arabian architecture; in antiquity, after Egyptian architecture, of which Etruscan style and cyclopean monuments are but one variety, came Greek architecture (of which the Roman style is only a continuation), surcharged with the Carthaginian dome; in modern times, after Romanesque architecture came Gothic architecture.And by separating there three series into their component parts, we shall find in the three eldest sisters, Hindoo architecture, Egyptian architecture, Romanesque architecture, the same symbol; that is to say, theocracy, caste, unity, dogma, myth, God: and for the three younger sisters, phoenician architecture, Greek architecture, Gothic architecture, whatever, nevertheless, may be the diversity of form inherent in their nature, the same signification also; that is to say, liberty, the people, man.
In the Hindu, Egyptian, or Romanesque architecture, one feels the priest, nothing but the priest, whether he calls himself Brahmin, Magian, or pope.It is not the same in the architectures of the people.They are richer and less sacred. In the phoenician, one feels the merchant; in the Greek, the republican; in the Gothic, the citizen.
The general characteristics of all theocratic architecture are immutability, horror of progress, the preservation of traditional lines, the consecration of the primitive types, the constant bending of all the forms of men and of nature to the incomprehensible caprices of the symbol.These are dark books, which the initiated alone understand how to decipher. Moreover, every form, every deformity even, has there a sense which renders it inviolable.Do not ask of Hindoo, Egyptian, Romanesque masonry to reform their design, or to improve their statuary.Every attempt at perfecting is an impiety to them.In these architectures it seems as though the rigidity of the dogma had spread over the stone like a sort of second petrifaction.The general characteristics of popular masonry, on the contrary, are progress, originality, opulence, perpetual movement.They are already sufficiently detached from religion to think of their beauty, to take care of it, to correct without relaxation their parure of statues or arabesques.They are of the age.They have something human, which they mingle incessantly with the divine symbol under which they still produce.Hence, edifices comprehensible to every soul, to every intelligence, to every imagination, symbolical still, but as easy to understand as nature.Between theocratic architecture and this there is the difference that lies between a sacred language and a vulgar language, between hieroglyphics and art, between Solomon and phidias.
If the reader will sum up what we have hitherto briefly, very briefly, indicated, neglecting a thousand proofs and also a thousand objections of detail, be will be led to this: that architecture was, down to the fifteenth century, the chief register of humanity; that in that interval not a thought which is in any degree complicated made its appearance in the world, which has not been worked into an edifice; that every popular idea, and every religious law, has had its monumental records; that the human race has, in short, had no important thought which it has not written in stone.And why? Because every thought, either philosophical or religious, is interested in perpetuating itself; because the idea which has moved one generation wishes to move others also, and leave a trace.Now, what a precarious immortality is that of the manuscript!How much more solid, durable, unyielding, is a book of stone!In order to destroy the written word, a torch and a Turk are sufficient.To demolish the constructed word, a social revolution, a terrestrial revolution are required. The barbarians passed over the Coliseum; the deluge, perhaps, passed over the pyramids.
In the fifteenth century everything changes.
Human thought discovers a mode of perpetuating itself, not only more durable and more resisting than architecture, but still more simple and easy.Architecture is dethroned. Gutenberg's letters of lead are about to supersede Orpheus's letters of stone.
*The book is about to kill the edifice*.
The invention of printing is the greatest event in history. It is the mother of revolution.It is the mode of expression of humanity which is totally renewed; it is human thought stripping off one form and donning another; it is the complete and definitive change of skin of that symbolical serpent which since the days of Adam has represented intelligence.
In its printed form, thought is more imperishable than ever; it is volatile, irresistible, indestructible.It is mingled with the air.In the days of architecture it made a mountain of itself, and took powerful possession of a century and a place.Now it converts itself into a flock of birds, scatters itself to the four winds, and occupies all points of air and space at once.
We repeat, who does not perceive that in this form it is far more indelible?It was solid, it has become alive. It passes from duration in time to immortality.One can demolish a mass; bow can one extirpate ubiquity?If a flood comes, the mountains will have long disappeared beneath the waves, while the birds will still be flying about; and if a single ark floats on the surface of the cataclysm, they will alight upon it, will float with it, will be present with it at the ebbing of the waters; and the new world which emerges from this chaos will behold, on its awakening, the thought of the world which has been submerged soaring above it, winged and living.

¡¶BOOK FIFTH CHAPTER II.THIS WILL KILL THAT. Page 2¡·
And when one observes that this mode of expression is not only the most conservative, but also the most simple, the most convenient, the most practicable for all; when one reflects that it does not drag after it bulky baggage, and does not set in motion a heavy apparatus; when one compares thought forced, in order to transform itself into an edifice, to put in motion four or five other arts and tons of gold, a whole mountain of stones, a whole forest of timber-work, a whole nation of workmen; when one compares it to the thought which becomes a book, and for which a little paper, a little ink, and a pen suffice,--how can one be surprised that human intelligence should have quitted architecture for printing? Cut the primitive bed of a river abruptly with a canal hollowed out below its level, and the river will desert its bed.
Behold how, beginning with the discovery of printing, architecture withers away little by little, becomes lifeless and bare.How one feels the water sinking, the sap departing, the thought of the times and of the people withdrawing from it!The chill is almost imperceptible in the fifteenth century; the press is, as yet, too weak, and, at the most, draws from powerful architecture a superabundance of life.But practically beginning with the sixteenth century, the malady of architecture is visible; it is no longer the expression of society; it becomes classic art in a miserable manner; from being Gallic, European, indigenous, it becomes Greek and Roman; from being true and modern, it becomes pseudo-classic.It is this decadence which is called the Renaissance.A magnificent decadence, however, for the ancient Gothic genius, that sun which sets behind the gigantic press of Mayence, still penetrates for a while longer with its rays that whole hybrid pile of Latin arcades and Corinthian columns.
It is that setting sun which we mistake for the dawn.
Nevertheless, from the moment when architecture is no longer anything but an art like any other; as soon as it is no longer the total art, the sovereign art, the tyrant art,--it has no longer the power to retain the other arts.So they emancipate themselves, break the yoke of the architect, and take themselves off, each one in its own direction.Each one of them gains by this divorce.Isolation aggrandizes everything. Sculpture becomes statuary, the image trade becomes painting, the canon becomes music.One would pronounce it an empire dismembered at the death of its Alexander, and whose provinces become kingdoms.
Hence Raphael, Michael Angelo, Jean Goujon, palestrina, those splendors of the dazzling sixteenth century.
Thought emancipates itself in all directions at the same time as the arts.The arch-heretics of the Middle Ages had already made large incisions into Catholicism.The sixteenth century breaks religious unity.Before the invention of printing, reform would have been merely a schism; printing converted it into a revolution.Take away the press; heresy is enervated. Whether it be providence or Fate, Gutenburg is the precursor of Luther.
Nevertheless, when the sun of the Middle Ages is completely set, when the Gothic genius is forever extinct upon the horizon, architecture grows dim, loses its color, becomes more and more effaced.The printed book, the gnawing worm of the edifice, sucks and devours it.It becomes bare, denuded of its foliage, and grows visibly emaciated.It is petty, it is poor, it is nothing.It no longer expresses anything, not even the memory of the art of another time.Reduced to itself, abandoned by the other arts, because human thought is abandoning it, it summons bunglers in place of artists.Glass replaces the painted windows.The stone-cutter succeeds the sculptor. Farewell all sap, all originality, all life, all intelligence. It drags along, a lamentable workshop mendicant, from copy to copy.Michael Angelo, who, no doubt, felt even in the sixteenth century that it was dying, had a last idea, an idea of despair.That Titan of art piled the pantheon on the parthenon, and made Saint-peter's at Rome.A great work, which deserved to remain unique, the last originality of architecture, the signature of a giant artist at the bottom of the colossal register of stone which was closed forever.With Michael Angelo dead, what does this miserable architecture, which survived itself in the state of a spectre, do?It takes Saint-peter in Rome, copies it and parodies it.It is a mania. It is a pity.Each century has its Saint-peter's of Rome; in the seventeenth century, the Val-de-Grace; in the eighteenth, Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve.Each country has its Saint-peter's of Rome.London has one; petersburg has another; paris has two or three.The insignificant testament, the last dotage of a decrepit grand art falling back into infancy before it dies.
If, in place of the characteristic monuments which we have just described, we examine the general aspect of art from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, we notice the same phenomena of decay and phthisis.Beginning with Fran?ois II., the architectural form of the edifice effaces itself more and more, and allows the geometrical form, like the bony structure of an emaciated invalid, to become prominent.The fine lines of art give way to the cold and inexorable lines of geometry.An edifice is no longer an edifice; it is a polyhedron.Meanwhile, architecture is tormented in her struggles to conceal this nudity.Look at the Greek pediment inscribed upon the Roman pediment, and vice versa.It is still the pantheon on the parthenon: Saint-peter's of Rome.Here are the brick houses of Henri IV., with their stone corners; the place Royale, the place Dauphine.Here are the churches of Louis XIII., heavy, squat, thickset, crowded together, loaded with a dome like a hump.Here is the Mazarin architecture, the wretched Italian pasticcio of the Four Nations. Here are the palaces of Louis XIV., long barracks for courtiers, stiff, cold, tiresome.Here, finally, is Louis XV., with chiccory leaves and vermicelli, and all the warts, and all the fungi, which disfigure that decrepit, toothless, and coquettish old architecture.From Fran?ois II. to Louis XV., the evil has increased in geometrical progression.Art has no longer anything but skin upon its bones.It is miserably perishing.
Meanwhile what becomes of printing?All the life which is leaving architecture comes to it.In proportion as architecture ebbs, printing swells and grows.That capital of forces which human thought had been expending in edifices, it henceforth expends in books.Thus, from the sixteenth century onward, the press, raised to the level of decaying architecture, contends with it and kills it.In the seventeenth century it is already sufficiently the sovereign, sufficiently triumphant, sufficiently established in its victory, to give to the world the feast of a great literary century.In the eighteenth, having reposed for a long time at the Court of Louis XIV., it seizes again the old sword of Luther, puts it into the hand of Voltaire, and rushes impetuously to the attack of that ancient Europe, whose architectural expression it has already killed.At the moment when the eighteenth century comes to an end, it has destroyed everything. In the nineteenth, it begins to reconstruct.
Now, we ask, which of the three arts has really represented human thought for the last three centuries? which translates it? which expresses not only its literary and scholastic vagaries, but its vast, profound, universal movement? which constantly superposes itself, without a break, without a gap, upon the human race, which walks a monster with a thousand legs?--Architecture or printing?
It is printing.Let the reader make no mistake; architecture is dead; irretrievably slain by the printed book,--slain because it endures for a shorter time,--slain because it costs more.Every cathedral represents millions.Let the reader now imagine what an investment of funds it would require to rewrite the architectural book; to cause thousands of edifices to swarm once more upon the soil; to return to those epochs when the throng of monuments was such, according to the statement of an eye witness, "that one would have said that the world in shaking itself, had cast off its old garments in order to cover itself with a white vesture of churches." ~Erat enim ut si mundus, ipse excutiendo semet, rejecta vetustate, candida ecclesiarum vestem indueret~.(GLABER RADOLpHUS.)
A book is so soon made, costs so little, and can go so far! How can it surprise us that all human thought flows in this channel?This does not mean that architecture will not still have a fine monument, an isolated masterpiece, here and there.We may still have from time to time, under the reign of printing, a column made I suppose, by a whole army from melted cannon, as we had under the reign of architecture, Iliads and Romanceros, Mahabahrata, and Nibelungen Lieds, made by a whole people, with rhapsodies piled up and melted together.The great accident of an architect of genius may happen in the twentieth century, like that of Dante in the thirteenth.But architecture will no longer be the social art, the collective art, the dominating art.The grand poem, the grand edifice, the grand work of humanity will no longer be built: it will be printed.
And henceforth, if architecture should arise again accidentally, it will no longer be mistress.It will be subservient to the law of literature, which formerly received the law from it.The respective positions of the two arts will be inverted.It is certain that in architectural epochs, the poems, rare it is true, resemble the monuments.In India, Vyasa is branching, strange, impenetrable as a pagoda.In Egyptian Orient, poetry has like the edifices, grandeur and tranquillity of line; in antique Greece, beauty, serenity, calm; in Christian Europe, the Catholic majesty, the popular naivete, the rich and luxuriant vegetation of an epoch of renewal. The Bible resembles the pyramids; the Iliad, the parthenon; Homer, phidias.Dante in the thirteenth century is the last Romanesque church; Shakespeare in the sixteenth, the last Gothic cathedral.
Thus, to sum up what we have hitherto said, in a fashion which is necessarily incomplete and mutilated, the human race has two books, two registers, two testaments: masonry and printing; the Bible of stone and the Bible of paper.No doubt, when one contemplates these two Bibles, laid so broadly open in the centuries, it is permissible to regret the visible majesty of the writing of granite, those gigantic alphabets formulated in colonnades, in pylons, in obelisks, those sorts of human mountains which cover the world and the past, from the pyramid to the bell tower, from Cheops to Strasburg. The past must be reread upon these pages of marble.This book, written by architecture, must be admired and perused incessantly; but the grandeur of the edifice which printing erects in its turn must not be denied.
That edifice is colossal.Some compiler of statistics has calculated, that if all the volumes which have issued from the press since Gutenberg's day were to be piled one upon another, they would fill the space between the earth and the moon; but it is not that sort of grandeur of which we wished to speak.Nevertheless, when one tries to collect in one's mind a comprehensive image of the total products of printing down to our own days, does not that total appear to us like an immense construction, resting upon the entire world, at which humanity toils without relaxation, and whose monstrous crest is lost in the profound mists of the future?It is the anthill of intelligence.It is the hive whither come all imaginations, those golden bees, with their honey.
The edifice has a thousand stories.Here and there one beholds on its staircases the gloomy caverns of science which pierce its interior.Everywhere upon its surface, art causes its arabesques, rosettes, and laces to thrive luxuriantly before the eyes.There, every individual work, however capricious and isolated it may seem, has its place and its projection. Harmony results from the whole.From the cathedral of Shakespeare to the mosque of Byron, a thousand tiny bell towers are piled pell-mell above this metropolis of universal thought.At its base are written some ancient titles of humanity which architecture had not registered.To the left of the entrance has been fixed the ancient bas-relief, in white marble, of Homer; to the right, the polyglot Bible rears its seven heads.The hydra of the Romancero and some other hybrid forms, the Vedas and the Nibelungen bristle further on.
Nevertheless, the prodigious edifice still remains incomplete. The press, that giant machine, which incessantly pumps all the intellectual sap of society, belches forth without pause fresh materials for its work.The whole human race is on the scaffoldings.Each mind is a mason.The humblest fills his hole, or places his stone.Retif d¨¨ le Bretonne brings his hod of plaster.Every day a new course rises.Independently of the original and individual contribution of each writer, there are collective contingents.The eighteenth century gives the _Encyclopedia_, the revolution gives the _Moniteur_.Assuredly, it is a construction which increases and piles up in endless spirals; there also are confusion of tongues, incessant activity, indefatigable labor, eager competition of all humanity, refuge promised to intelligence, a new Flood against an overflow of barbarians.It is the second tower of Babel of the human race.

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¡¶BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER I.AN IMPARTIAL GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGISTRACY.¡·
A very happy personage in the year of grace 1482, was the noble gentleman Robert d'Estouteville, chevalier, Sieur de Beyne, Baron d'Ivry and Saint Andry en la Marche, counsellor and chamberlain to the king, and guard of the provostship of paris.It was already nearly seventeen years since he had received from the king, on November 7, 1465, the comet year,* that fine charge of the provostship of paris, which was reputed rather a seigneury than an office.~Dignitas~, says Joannes Loemnoeus, ~quoe cum non exigua potestate politiam concernente, atque proerogativis multis et juribus conjuncta est~.A marvellous thing in '82 was a gentleman bearing the king's commission, and whose letters of institution ran back to the epoch of the marriage of the natural daughter of Louis XI. with Monsieur the Bastard of Bourbon.
*This comet against which pope Calixtus, uncle of Borgia, ordered public prayers, is the same which reappeared in 1835.
The same day on which Robert d'Estouteville took the place of Jacques de Villiers in the provostship of paris, Master Jehan Dauvet replaced Messire Helye de Thorrettes in the first presidency of the Court of parliament, Jehan Jouvenel des Ursins supplanted pierre de Morvilliers in the office of chancellor of France, Regnault des Dormans ousted pierre puy from the charge of master of requests in ordinary of the king's household.Now, upon how many heads had the presidency, the chancellorship, the mastership passed since Robert d'Estouteville had held the provostship of paris.It had been "granted to him for safekeeping," as the letters patent said; and certainly he kept it well.He had clung to it, he had incorporated himself with it, he had so identified himself with it that he had escaped that fury for change which possessed Louis XI., a tormenting and industrious king, whose policy it was to maintain the elasticity of his power by frequent appointments and revocations.More than this; the brave chevalier had obtained the reversion of the office for his son, and for two years already, the name of the noble man Jacques d'Estouteville, equerry, had figured beside his at the head of the register of the salary list of the provostship of paris.A rare and notable favor indeed!It is true that Robert d'Estouteville was a good soldier, that he had loyally raised his pennon against "the league of public good," and that he had presented to the queen a very marvellous stag in confectionery on the day of her entrance to paris in 14... Moreover, he possessed the good friendship of Messire Tristan l'Hermite, provost of the marshals of the king's household. Hence a very sweet and pleasant existence was that of Messire Robert.In the first place, very good wages, to which were attached, and from which hung, like extra bunches of grapes on his vine, the revenues of the civil and criminal registries of the provostship, plus the civil and criminal revenues of the tribunals of Embas of the Chatelet, without reckoning some little toll from the bridges of Mantes and of Corbeil, and the profits on the craft of Shagreen-makers of paris, on the corders of firewood and the measurers of salt. Add to this the pleasure of displaying himself in rides about the city, and of making his fine military costume, which you may still admire sculptured on his tomb in the abbey of Valmont in Normandy, and his morion, all embossed at Montlh¨¦ry, stand out a contrast against the parti-colored red and tawny robes of the aldermen and police.And then, was it nothing to wield absolute supremacy over the sergeants of the police, the porter and watch of the Chatelet, the two auditors of the Chatelet, ~auditores castelleti~, the sixteen commissioners of the sixteen quarters, the jailer of the Chatelet, the four enfeoffed sergeants, the hundred and twenty mounted sergeants, with maces, the chevalier of the watch with his watch, his sub-watch, his counter-watch and his rear-watch? Was it nothing to exercise high and low justice, the right to interrogate, to hang and to draw, without reckoning petty jurisdiction in the first resort (~in prima instantia~, as the charters say), on that viscomty of paris, so nobly appanaged with seven noble bailiwicks?Can anything sweeter be imagined than rendering judgments and decisions, as Messire Robert d'Estouteville daily did in the Grand Chatelet, under the large and flattened arches of philip Augustus? and going, as he was wont to do every evening, to that charming house situated in the Rue Galilee, in the enclosure of the royal palace, which he held in right of his wife, Madame Ambroise de Lore, to repose after the fatigue of having sent some poor wretch to pass the night in "that little cell of the Rue de Escorcherie, which the provosts and aldermen of paris used to make their prison; the same being eleven feet long, seven feet and four inches wide, and eleven feet high?"*
*Comptes du domaine, 1383.
And not only had Messire Robert d'Estouteville his special court as provost and vicomte of paris; but in addition he had a share, both for eye and tooth, in the grand court of the king.There was no head in the least elevated which had not passed through his hands before it came to the headsman.It was he who went to seek M. de Nemours at the Bastille Saint Antoine, in order to conduct him to the Halles; and to conduct to the Gr¨¨ve M. de Saint-pol, who clamored and resisted, to the great joy of the provost, who did not love monsieur the constable.
Here, assuredly, is more than sufficient to render a life happy and illustrious, and to deserve some day a notable page in that interesting history of the provosts of paris, where one learns that Oudard de Villeneuve had a house in the Rue des Boucheries, that Guillaume de Hangest purchased the great and the little Savoy, that Guillaume Thiboust gave the nuns of Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve his houses in the Rue Clopin, that Hugues Aubriot lived in the H?tel du pore-Epic, and other domestic facts.
Nevertheless, with so many reasons for taking life patiently and joyously, Messire Robert d'Estouteville woke up on the morning of the seventh of January, 1482, in a very surly and peevish mood.Whence came this ill temper?He could not have told himself.Was it because the sky was gray? or was the buckle of his old belt of Montlh¨¦ry badly fastened, so that it confined his provostal portliness too closely? had he beheld ribald fellows, marching in bands of four, beneath his window, and setting him at defiance, in doublets but no shirts, hats without crowns, with wallet and bottle at their side? Was it a vague presentiment of the three hundred and seventy livres, sixteen sous, eight farthings, which the future King Charles VII. was to cut off from the provostship in the following year?The reader can take his choice; we, for our part, are much inclined to believe that he was in a bad humor, simply because he was in a bad humor.
Moreover, it was the day after a festival, a tiresome day for every one, and above all for the magistrate who is charged with sweeping away all the filth, properly and figuratively speaking, which a festival day produces in paris.And then he had to hold a sitting at the Grand Chatelet.Now, we have noticed that judges in general so arrange matters that their day of audience shall also be their day of bad humor, so that they may always have some one upon whom to vent it conveniently, in the name of the king, law, and justice.
However, the audience had begun without him.His lieutenants, civil, criminal, and private, were doing his work, according to usage; and from eight o'clock in the morning, some scores of bourgeois and ~bourgeoises~, heaped and crowded into an obscure corner of the audience chamber of Embas du Chatelet, between a stout oaken barrier and the wall, had been gazing blissfully at the varied and cheerful spectacle of civil and criminal justice dispensed by Master Florian Barbedienne,
auditor of the Chatelet, lieutenant of monsieur the provost, in a somewhat confused and utterly haphazard manner.
The hall was small, low, vaulted.A table studded with fleurs-de-lis stood at one end, with a large arm-chair of carved oak, which belonged to the provost and was empty, and a stool on the left for the auditor, Master Florian.Below sat the clerk of the court, scribbling; opposite was the populace; and in front of the door, and in front of the table were many sergeants of the provostship in sleeveless jackets of violet camlet, with white crosses.Two sergeants of the parloir- aux-Bourgeois, clothed in their jackets of Toussaint, half red, half blue, were posted as sentinels before a low, closed door, which was visible at the extremity of the hall, behind the table.A single pointed window, narrowly encased in the thick wall, illuminated with a pale ray of January sun two grotesque figures,--the capricious demon of stone carved as a tail-piece in the keystone of the vaulted ceiling, and the judge seated at the end of the hall on the fleurs-de-lis.
Imagine, in fact, at the provost's table, leaning upon his elbows between two bundles of documents of cases, with his foot on the train of his robe of plain brown cloth, his face buried in his hood of white lamb's skin, of which his brows seemed to be of a piece, red, crabbed, winking, bearing majestically the load of fat on his cheeks which met under his chin, Master Florian Barbedienne, auditor of the Chatelet.
Now, the auditor was deaf.A slight defect in an auditor. Master Florian delivered judgment, none the less, without appeal and very suitably.It is certainly quite sufficient for a judge to have the .air of listening; and the venerable auditor fulfilled this condition, the sole one in justice, all the better because his attention could not be distracted by any noise.
Moreover, he had in the audience, a pitiless censor of his deeds and gestures, in the person of our friend Jehan Frollo du Moulin, that little student of yesterday, that "stroller," whom one was sure of encountering all over paris, anywhere except before the rostrums of the professors.
"Stay," he said in a low tone to his companion, Robin poussepain, who was grinning at his side, while he was making his comments on the scenes which were being unfolded before his eyes, "yonder is Jehanneton du Buisson.The beautiful daughter of the lazy dog at the March¨¦-Neuf!--Upon my soul, he is condemning her, the old rascal! he has no more eyes than ears.Fifteen sous, four farthings, parisian, for having worn two rosaries!'Tis somewhat dear.~Lex duri carminis~.Who's that?Robin Chief-de-Ville, hauberkmaker.For having been passed and received master of the said trade!That's his entrance money.He! two gentlemen among these knaves!Aiglet de Soins, Hutin de Mailly Two equerries, ~Corpus Christi~!Ah! they have been playing at dice.When shall I see our rector here?A hundred livres parisian, fine to the king!That Barbedienne strikes like a deaf man,--as he is!I'll be my brother the archdeacon, if that keeps me from gaming; gaming by day, gaming by night, living at play, dying at play, and gaming away my soul after my shirt.Holy Virgin, what damsels!One after the other my lambs.Ambroise L¨¦cuyere, Isabeau la paynette, B¨¦rarde Gironin!I know them all, by Heavens!A fine! a fine! That's what will teach you to wear gilded girdles! ten sous parisis! you coquettes!Oh! the old snout of a judge! deaf and imbecile!Oh!Florian the dolt!Oh!Barbedienne the blockhead!There he is at the table!He's eating the plaintiff, he's eating the suits, he eats, he chews, he crams, he fills himself.Fines, lost goods, taxes, expenses, loyal charges, salaries, damages, and interests, gehenna, prison, and jail, and fetters with expenses are Christmas spice cake and marchpanes of Saint-John to him!Look at him, the pig!--Come! Good!Another amorous woman!Thibaud-la-Thibaude, neither more nor less!For having come from the Rue Glatigny!What fellow is this?Gieffroy Mabonne, gendarme bearing the crossbow.He has cursed the name of the Father.A fine for la Thibaude!A fine for Gieffroy!A fine for them both!The deaf old fool! he must have mixed up the two cases!Ten to one that he makes the wench pay for the oath and the gendarme for the amour!Attention, Robin poussepain!What are they going to bring in?Here are many sergeants!By Jupiter! all the bloodhounds of the pack are there.It must be the great beast of the hunt--a wild boar.And 'tis one, Robin, 'tis one.And a fine one too! ~Hercle~! 'tis our prince of yesterday, our pope of the Fools, our bellringer, our one-eyed man, our hunchback, our grimace! 'Tis Quasimodo!"
It was he indeed.
It was Quasimodo, bound, encircled, roped, pinioned, and under good guard.The squad of policemen who surrounded him was assisted by the chevalier of the watch in person, wearing the arms of France embroidered on his breast, and the arms of the city on his back.There was nothing, however, about Quasimodo, except his deformity, which could justify the display of halberds and arquebuses; he was gloomy, silent, and tranquil.Only now and then did his single eye cast a sly and wrathful glance upon the bonds with which he was loaded.
He cast the same glance about him, but it was so dull and sleepy that the women only pointed him out to each other in derision.
Meanwhile Master Florian, the auditor, turned over attentively the document in the complaint entered against Quasimodo, which the clerk handed him, and, having thus glanced at it, appeared to reflect for a moment.Thanks to this precaution, which he always was careful to take at the moment when on the point of beginning an examination, he knew beforehand the names, titles, and misdeeds of the accused, made cut and dried responses to questions foreseen, and succeeded in extricating himself from all the windings of the interrogation without allowing his deafness to be too apparent.The written charges were to him what the dog is to the blind man.If his deafness did happen to betray him here and there, by some incoherent apostrophe or some unintelligible question, it passed for profundity with some, and for imbecility with others.In neither case did the honor of the magistracy sustain any injury; for it is far better that a judge should be reputed imbecile or profound than deaf.Hence he took great care to conceal his deafness from the eyes of all, and he generally succeeded so well that he had reached the point of deluding himself, which is, by the way, easier than is supposed.All hunchbacks walk with their heads held high, all stutterers harangue, all deaf people speak low.As for him, he believed, at the most, that his ear was a little refractory.It was the sole concession which he made on this point to public opinion, in his moments of frankness and examination of his conscience.
Having, then, thoroughly ruminated Quasimodo's affair, he threw back his head and half closed his eyes, for the sake of more majesty and impartiality, so that, at that moment, he was both deaf and blind.A double condition, without which no judge is perfect.It was in this magisterial attitude that he began the examination.
"Your name?"
Now this was a case which had not been "provided for by law," where a deaf man should be obliged to question a deaf man.
Quasimodo, whom nothing warned that a question had been addressed to him, continued to stare intently at the judge, and made no reply.The judge, being deaf, and being in no way warned of the deafness of the accused, thought that the latter had answered, as all accused do in general, and therefore he pursued, with his mechanical and stupid self-possession,--
"Very well.And your age?"
Again Quasimodo made no reply to this question.The judge supposed that it had been replied to, and continued,--
"Now, your profession?"
Still the same silence.The spectators had begun, meanwhile, to whisper together, and to exchange glances.
"That will do," went on the imperturbable auditor, when he supposed that the accused had finished his third reply."You are accused before us, ~primo~, of nocturnal disturbance; ~secundo~, of a dishonorable act of violence upon the person of a foolish woman, ~in proejudicium meretricis; tertio~, of rebellion and disloyalty towards the archers of the police of our lord, the king.Explain yourself upon all these points.---Clerk, have you written down what the prisoner has said thus far?"
At this unlucky question, a burst of laughter rose from the clerk's table caught by the audience, so violent, so wild, so contagious, so universal, that the two deaf men were forced to perceive it.Quasimodo turned round, shrugging his hump with disdain, while Master Florian, equally astonished, and supposing that the laughter of the spectators had been provoked by some irreverent reply from the accused, rendered visible to him by that shrug of the shoulders, apostrophized him indignantly,--
"You have uttered a reply, knave, which deserves the halter. Do you know to whom you are speaking?"
This sally was not fitted to arrest the explosion of general merriment.It struck all as so whimsical, and so ridiculous, that the wild laughter even attacked the sergeants of the parloi- aux-Bourgeois, a sort of pikemen, whose stupidity was part of their uniform.Quasimodo alone preserved his seriousness, for the good reason that he understood nothing of what was going on around him.The judge, more and more irritated, thought it his duty to continue in the same tone, hoping thereby to strike the accused with a terror which should react upon the audience, and bring it back to respect.
"So this is as much as to say, perverse and thieving knave that you are, that you permit yourself to be lacking in respect towards the Auditor of the Chatelet, to the magistrate committed to the popular police of paris, charged with searching out crimes, delinquencies, and evil conduct; with controlling all trades, and interdicting monopoly; with maintaining the pavements; with debarring the hucksters of chickens, poultry, and water-fowl; of superintending the measuring of fagots and other sorts of wood; of purging the city of mud, and the air of contagious maladies; in a word, with attending continually to public affairs, without wages or hope of salary!Do you know that I am called Florian Barbedienne, actual lieutenant to monsieur the provost, and, moreover, commissioner, inquisitor, controller, and examiner, with equal power in provostship, bailiwick, preservation, and inferior court of judicature?--"
There is no reason why a deaf man talking to a deaf man should stop.God knows where and when Master Florian would have landed, when thus launched at full speed in lofty eloquence, if the low door at the extreme end of the room had not suddenly opened, and given entrance to the provost in person.At his entrance Master Florian did not stop short, but, making a half-turn on his heels, and aiming at the provost the harangue with which he had been withering Quasimodo a moment before,--
"Monseigneur," said he, "I demand such penalty as you shall deem fitting against the prisoner here present, for grave and aggravated offence against the court."
And he seated himself, utterly breathless, wiping away the great drops of sweat which fell from his brow and drenched, like tears, the parchments spread out before him.Messire Robert d'Estouteville frowned and made a gesture so imperious and significant to Quasimodo, that the deaf man in some measure understood it.
The provost addressed him with severity, "What have you done that you have been brought hither, knave?"
The poor fellow, supposing that the provost was asking his name, broke the silence which he habitually preserved, and replied, in a harsh and guttural voice, "Quasimodo."
The reply matched the question so little that the wild laugh began to circulate once more, and Messire Robert exclaimed, red with wrath,--
"Are you mocking me also, you arrant knave?"
"Bellringer of Notre-Dame," replied Quasimodo, supposing that what was required of him was to explain to the judge who he was.
"Bellringer!" interpolated the provost, who had waked up early enough to be in a sufficiently bad temper, as we have said, not to require to have his fury inflamed by such strange responses."Bellringer!I'll play you a chime of rods on your back through the squares of paris!Do you hear, knave?"
"If it is my age that you wish to know," said Quasimodo, "I think that I shall be twenty at Saint Martin's day."
This was too much; the provost could no longer restrain himself.
"Ah! you are scoffing at the provostship, wretch!Messieurs the sergeants of the mace, you will take me this knave to the pillory of the Gr¨¨ve, you will flog him, and turn him for an hour.He shall pay me for it, ~t¨ºte Dieu~!And I order that the present judgment shall be cried, with the assistance of four sworn trumpeters, in the seven castellanies of the viscomty of paris."
The clerk set to work incontinently to draw up the account of the sentence.
"~Ventre Dieu~! 'tis well adjudged!" cried the little scholar, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, from his corner.
The provost turned and fixed his flashing eyes once more on Quasimodo."I believe the knave said '~Ventre Dieu~' Clerk, add twelve deniers parisian for the oath, and let the vestry of Saint Eustache have the half of it; I have a particular devotion for Saint Eustache."
In a few minutes the sentence was drawn up.Its tenor was simple and brief.The customs of the provostship and the viscomty had not yet been worked over by president Thibaut Baillet, and by Roger Barmne, the king's advocate; they had not been obstructed, at that time, by that lofty hedge of quibbles and procedures, which the two jurisconsults planted there at the beginning of the sixteenth century.All was clear, expeditious, explicit.One went straight to the point then, and at the end of every path there was immediately visible, without thickets and without turnings; the wheel, the gibbet, or the pillory.One at least knew whither one was going.
The clerk presented the sentence to the provost, who affixed his seal to it, and departed to pursue his round of the audience hall, in a frame of mind which seemed destined to fill all the jails in paris that day.Jehan Frollo and Robin poussepain laughed in their sleeves.Quasimodo gazed on the whole with an indifferent and astonished air.
However, at the moment when Master Florian Barbedienne was reading the sentence in his turn, before signing it, the clerk felt himself moved with pity for the poor wretch of a prisoner, and, in the hope of obtaining some mitigation of the penalty, he approached as near the auditor's ear as possible, and said, pointing to Quasimodo, "That man is deaf."
He hoped that this community of infirmity would awaken Master Florian's interest in behalf of the condemned man. But, in the first place, we have already observed that Master Florian did not care to have his deafness noticed.In the next place, he was so hard of hearing That he did not catch a single word of what the clerk said to him; nevertheless, he wished to have the appearance of hearing, and replied, "Ah! ah! that is different; I did not know that.An hour more of the pillory, in that case."
And he signed the sentence thus modified.
"'Tis well done," said Robin poussepain, who cherished a grudge against Quasimodo."That will teach him to handle people roughly."

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¡¶BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER II.THE RAT-HOLE.¡·
The reader must permit us to take him back to the place de Gr¨¨ve, which we quitted yesterday with Gringoire, in order to follow la Esmeralda.
It is ten o'clock in the morning; everything is indicative of the day after a festival.The pavement is covered with rubbish; ribbons, rags, feathers from tufts of plumes, drops of wax from the torches, crumbs of the public feast.A goodly number of bourgeois are "sauntering," as we say, here and there, turning over with their feet the extinct brands of the bonfire, going into raptures in front of the pillar House, over the memory of the fine hangings of the day before, and to-day staring at the nails that secured them a last pleasure. The venders of cider and beer are rolling their barrels among the groups.Some busy passers-by come and go.The merchants converse and call to each other from the thresholds of their shops.The festival, the ambassadors, Coppenole, the pope of the Fools, are in all mouths; they vie with each other, each trying to criticise it best and laugh the most. And, meanwhile, four mounted sergeants, who have just posted themselves at the four sides of the pillory, have already concentrated around themselves a goodly proportion of the populace scattered on the place, who condemn themselves to immobility and fatigue in the hope of a small execution.
If the reader, after having contemplated this lively and noisy scene which is being enacted in all parts of the place, will now transfer his gaze towards that ancient demi-Gothic, demi-Romanesque house of the Tour-Roland, which forms the corner on the quay to the west, he will observe, at the angle of the fa?ade, a large public breviary, with rich illuminations, protected from the rain by a little penthouse, and from thieves by a small grating, which, however, permits of the leaves being turned.Beside this breviary is a narrow, arched window, closed by two iron bars in the form of a cross, and looking on the square; the only opening which admits a small quantity of light and air to a little cell without a door, constructed on the ground-floor, in the thickness of the walls of the old house, and filled with a peace all the more profound, with a silence all the more gloomy, because a public place, the most populous and most noisy in paris swarms and shrieks around it.
This little cell had been celebrated in paris for nearly three centuries, ever since Madame Rolande de la Tour-Roland, in mourning for her father who died in the Crusades, had caused it to be hollowed out in the wall of her own house, in order to immure herself there forever, keeping of all her palace only this lodging whose door was walled up, and whose window stood open, winter and summer, giving all the rest to the poor and to God.The afflicted damsel had, in fact, waited twenty years for death in this premature tomb, praying night and day for the soul of her father, sleeping in ashes, without even a stone for a pillow, clothed in a black sack, and subsisting on the bread and water which the compassion of the passers-by led them to deposit on the ledge of her window, thus receiving charity after having bestowed it.At her death, at the moment when she was passing to the other sepulchre, she had bequeathed this one in perpetuity to afflicted women, mothers, widows, or maidens, who should wish to pray much for others or for themselves, and who should desire to inter themselves alive in a great grief or a great penance.The poor of her day had made her a fine funeral, with tears and benedictions; but, to their great regret, the pious maid had not been canonized, for lack of influence.Those among them who were a little inclined to impiety, had hoped that the matter might be accomplished in paradise more easily than at Rome, and had frankly besought God, instead of the pope, in behalf of the deceased.The majority had contented themselves with holding the memory of Rolande sacred, and converting her rags into relics.The city, on its side, had founded in honor of the damoiselle, a public breviary, which had been fastened near the window of the cell, in order that passers-by might halt there from time to time, were it only to pray; that prayer might remind them of alms, and that the poor recluses, heiresses of Madame Rolande's vault, might not die outright of hunger and forgetfulness.
Moreover, this sort of tomb was not so very rare a thing in the cities of the Middle Ages.One often encountered in the most frequented street, in the most crowded and noisy market, in the very middle, under the feet of the horses, under the wheels of the carts, as it were, a cellar, a well, a tiny walled and grated cabin, at the bottom of which a human being prayed night and day, voluntarily devoted to some eternal lamentation, to some great expiation.And all the reflections which that strange spectacle would awaken in us to-day; that horrible cell, a sort of intermediary link between a house and the tomb, the cemetery and the city; that living being cut off from the human community, and thenceforth reckoned among the dead; that lamp consuming its last drop of oil in the darkness; that remnant of life flickering in the grave; that breath, that voice, that eternal prayer in a box of stone; that face forever turned towards the other world; that eye already illuminated with another sun; that ear pressed to the walls of a tomb; that soul a prisoner in that body; that body a prisoner in that dungeon cell, and beneath that double envelope of flesh and granite, the murmur of that soul in pain;--nothing of all this was perceived by the crowd. The piety of that age, not very subtle nor much given to reasoning, did not see so many facets in an act of religion. It took the thing in the block, honored, venerated, hallowed the sacrifice at need, but did not analyze the sufferings, and felt but moderate pity for them.It brought some pittance to the miserable penitent from time to time, looked through the hole to see whether he were still living, forgot his name, hardly knew how many years ago he had begun to die, and to the stranger, who questioned them about the living skeleton who was perishing in that cellar, the neighbors replied simply, "It is the recluse."
Everything was then viewed without metaphysics, without exaggeration, without magnifying glass, with the naked eye. The microscope had not yet been invented, either for things of matter or for things of the mind.
Moreover, although people were but little surprised by it, the examples of this sort of cloistration in the hearts of cities were in truth frequent, as we have just said.There were in paris a considerable number of these cells, for praying to God and doing penance; they were nearly all occupied.It is true that the clergy did not like to have them empty, since that implied lukewarmness in believers, and that lepers were put into them when there were no penitents on hand.Besides the cell on the Gr¨¨ve, there was one at Montfau?on, one at the Charnier des Innocents, another I hardly know where,--at the Clichon House, I think; others still at many spots where traces of them are found in traditions, in default of memorials. The University had also its own.On Mount Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve a sort of Job of the Middle Ages, for the space of thirty years, chanted the seven penitential psalms on a dunghill at the bottom of a cistern, beginning anew when he had finished, singing loudest at night, ~magna voce per umbras~, and to-day, the antiquary fancies that he hears his voice as he enters the Rue du puits-qui-parle--the street of the "Speaking Well."
To confine ourselves to the cell in the Tour-Roland, we must say that it had never lacked recluses.After the death of Madame Roland, it had stood vacant for a year or two, though rarely.Many women had come thither to mourn, until their death, for relatives, lovers, faults.parisian malice, which thrusts its finger into everything, even into things which concern it the least, affirmed that it had beheld but few widows there.
In accordance with the fashion of the epoch, a Latin inscription on the wall indicated to the learned passer-by the pious purpose of this cell.The custom was retained until the middle of the sixteenth century of explaining an edifice by a brief device inscribed above the door.Thus, one still reads in France, above the wicket of the prison in the seignorial mansion of Tourville, ~Sileto et spera~; in Ireland, beneath the armorial bearings which surmount the grand door to Fortescue Castle, ~Forte scutum, salus ducum~; in England, over the principal entrance to the hospitable mansion of the Earls Cowper: ~Tuum est~.At that time every edifice was a thought.
As there was no door to the walled cell of the Tour-Roland, these two words had been carved in large Roman capitals over the window,--
TU, ORA.
And this caused the people, whose good sense does not perceive so much refinement in things, and likes to translate _Ludovico Magno_ by "porte Saint-Denis," to give to this dark, gloomy, damp cavity, the name of "The Rat-Hole."An explanation less sublime, perhaps, than the other; but, on the other hand, more picturesque.

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¡¶BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER III.HISTORY OF A LEAVENED CAKE OF MAIZE. Page 1¡·
At the epoch of this history, the cell in the Tour-Roland was occupied.If the reader desires to know by whom, he has only to lend an ear to the conversation of three worthy gossips, who, at the moment when we have directed his attention to the Rat-Hole, were directing their steps towards the same spot, coming up along the water's edge from the Chatelet, towards the Gr¨¨ve.
Two of these women were dressed like good ~bourgeoises~ of paris.Their fine white ruffs; their petticoats of linsey- woolsey, striped red and blue; their white knitted stockings, with clocks embroidered in colors, well drawn upon their legs; the square-toed shoes of tawny leather with black soles, and, above all, their headgear, that sort of tinsel horn, loaded down with ribbons and laces, which the women of Champagne still wear, in company with the grenadiers of the imperial guard of Russia, announced that they belonged to that class wives which holds the middle ground between what the lackeys call a woman and what they term a lady.They wore neither rings nor gold crosses, and it was easy to see that, in their ease, this did not proceed from poverty, but simply from fear of being fined.Their companion was attired in very much the same manner; but there was that indescribable something about her dress and bearing which suggested the wife of a provincial notary.One could see, by the way in which her girdle rose above her hips, that she had not been long in paris.--Add to this a plaited tucker, knots of ribbon on her shoes--and that the stripes of her petticoat ran horizontally instead of vertically, and a thousand other enormities which shocked good taste.
The two first walked with that step peculiar to parisian ladies, showing paris to women from the country.The provincial held by the hand a big boy, who held in his a large, flat cake.
We regret to be obliged to add, that, owing to the rigor of the season, he was using his tongue as a handkerchief.
The child was making them drag him along, ~non passibus Cequis~, as Virgil says, and stumbling at every moment, to the great indignation of his mother.It is true that he was looking at his cake more than at the pavement.Some serious motive, no doubt, prevented his biting it (the cake), for he contented himself with gazing tenderly at it.But the mother should have rather taken charge of the cake.It was cruel to make a Tantalus of the chubby-checked boy.
Meanwhile, the three demoiselles (for the name of dames was then reserved for noble women) were all talking at once.
"Let us make haste, Demoiselle Mahiette," said the youngest of the three, who was also the largest, to the provincial, "I greatly fear that we shall arrive too late; they told us at the Chatelet that they were going to take him directly to the pillory."
"Ah, bah! what are you saying, Demoiselle Oudarde Musnier?" interposed the other parisienne."There are two hours yet to the pillory.We have time enough.Have you ever seen any one pilloried, my dear Mahiette?"
"Yes," said the provincial, "at Reims."
"Ah, bah!What is your pillory at Reims?A miserable cage into which only peasants are turned.A great affair, truly!"
"Only peasants!" said Mahiette, "at the cloth market in Reims!We have seen very fine criminals there, who have killed their father and mother!peasants!For what do you take us, Gervaise?"
It is certain that the provincial was on the point of taking offence, for the honor of her pillory.Fortunately, that discreet damoiselle, Oudarde Musnier, turned the conversation in time.
"By the way, Damoiselle Mahiette, what say you to our Flemish Ambassadors?Have you as fine ones at Reims?"
"I admit," replied Mahiette, "that it is only in paris that such Flemings can be seen."
"Did you see among the embassy, that big ambassador who is a hosier?" asked Oudarde.
"Yes," said Mahiette."He has the eye of a Saturn."
"And the big fellow whose face resembles a bare belly?" resumed Gervaise."And the little one, with small eyes framed in red eyelids, pared down and slashed up like a thistle head?"
"'Tis their horses that are worth seeing," said Oudarde, "caparisoned as they are after the fashion of their country!"
"Ah my dear," interrupted provincial Mahiette, assuming in her turn an air of superiority, "what would you say then, if you had seen in '61, at the consecration at Reims, eighteen years ago, the horses of the princes and of the king's company?Housings and caparisons of all sorts; some of damask cloth, of fine cloth of gold, furred with sables; others of velvet, furred with ermine; others all embellished with goldsmith's work and large bells of gold and silver!And what money that had cost!And what handsome boy pages rode upon them!"
"That," replied Oudarde dryly, "does not prevent the Flemings having very fine horses, and having had a superb supper yesterday with monsieur, the provost of the merchants, at the H?tel-de-Ville, where they were served with comfits and hippocras, and spices, and other singularities."
"What are you saying, neighbor!" exclaimed Gervaise. "It was with monsieur the cardinal, at the petit Bourbon that they supped."
"Not at all.At the H?tel-de-Ville.
"Yes, indeed.At the petit Bourbon!"
"It was at the H?tel-de-Ville," retorted Oudarde sharply, "and Dr. Scourable addressed them a harangue in Latin, which pleased them greatly.My husband, who is sworn bookseller told me."
"It was at the petit Bourbon," replied Gervaise, with no less spirit, "and this is what monsieur the cardinal's procurator presented to them: twelve double quarts of hippocras, white, claret, and red; twenty-four boxes of double Lyons marchpane, gilded; as many torches, worth two livres a piece; and six demi-queues* of Beaune wine, white and claret, the best that could be found.I have it from my husband, who is a cinquantenier**, at the parloir-aux Bourgeois, and who was this morning comparing the Flemish ambassadors with those of prester John and the Emperor of Trebizond, who came from Mesopotamia to paris, under the last king, and who wore rings in their ears."
*A Queue was a cask which held a hogshead and a half.
**A captain of fifty men.
"So true is it that they supped at the H?tel-de-Ville," replied Oudarde but little affected by this catalogue, "that such a triumph of viands and comfits has never been seen."
"I tell you that they were served by Le Sec, sergeant of the city, at the H?tel du petit-Bourbon, and that that is where you are mistaken."
"At the H?tel-de-Ville, I tell you!"
"At the petit-Bourbon, my dear! and they had illuminated with magic glasses the word hope, which is written on the grand portal."
"At the H?tel-de-Ville!At the H?tel-de-Ville!And Husson-le-Voir played the flute!"
"I tell you, no!"
"I tell you, yes!"
"I say, no!"
plump and worthy Oudarde was preparing to retort, and the quarrel might, perhaps, have proceeded to a pulling of caps, had not Mahiette suddenly exclaimed,--"Look at those people assembled yonder at the end of the bridge!There is something in their midst that they are looking at!"
"In sooth," said Gervaise, "I hear the sounds of a tambourine.I believe 'tis the little Esmeralda, who plays her mummeries with her goat.Eh, be quick, Mahiette! redouble your pace and drag along your boy.You are come hither to visit the curiosities of paris.You saw the Flemings yesterday; you must see the gypsy to-day."
"The gypsy!" said Mahiette, suddenly retracing her steps, and clasping her son's arm forcibly."God preserve me from it!She would steal my child from me!Come, Eustache!"
And she set out on a run along the quay towards the Gr¨¨ve, until she had left the bridge far behind her.In the meanwhile, the child whom she was dragging after her fell upon his knees; she halted breathless.Oudarde and Gervaise rejoined her.
"That gypsy steal your child from you!" said Gervaise. "That's a singular freak of yours!"
Mahiette shook her head with a pensive air.
"The singular point is," observed Oudarde, "that ~la sachette~ has the same idea about the Egyptian woman."
"What is ~la sachette~?" asked Mahiette.
"H¨¦!" said Oudarde, "Sister Gudule."
"And who is Sister Gudule?" persisted Mahiette.
"You are certainly ignorant of all but your Reims, not to know that!" replied Oudarde."'Tis the recluse of the Rat-Hole."
"What!" demanded Mahiette, "that poor woman to whom we are carrying this cake?"
Oudarde nodded affirmatively.
"precisely.You will see her presently at her window on the Gr¨¨ve.She has the same opinion as yourself of these vagabonds of Egypt, who play the tambourine and tell fortunes to the public.No one knows whence comes her horror of the gypsies and Egyptians.But you, Mahiette--why do you run so at the mere sight of them?"
"Oh!" said Mahiette, seizing her child's round head in both hands, "I don't want that to happen to me which happened to paquette la Chantefleurie."
"Oh! you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette," said Gervaise, taking her arm.
"Gladly," replied Mahiette, "but you must be ignorant of all but your paris not to know that!I will tell you then (but 'tis not necessary for us to halt that I may tell you the tale), that paquette la Chantefleurie was a pretty maid of eighteen when I was one myself, that is to say, eighteen years ago, and 'tis her own fault if she is not to-day, like me, a good, plump, fresh mother of six and thirty, with a husband and a son. However, after the age of fourteen, it was too late!Well, she was the daughter of Guybertant, minstrel of the barges at Reims, the same who had played before King Charles VII., at his coronation, when he descended our river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, when Madame the Maid of Orleans was also in the boat.The old father died when paquette was still a mere child; she had then no one but her mother, the sister of M. pradon, master-brazier and coppersmith in paris, Rue Farm- Garlin, who died last year.You see she was of good family. The mother was a good simple woman, unfortunately, and she taught paquette nothing but a bit of embroidery and toy-making which did not prevent the little one from growing very large and remaining very poor.They both dwelt at Reims, on the river front, Rue de Folle-peine.Mark this: For I believe it was this which brought misfortune to paquette. In '61, the year of the coronation of our King Louis XI. whom God preserve! paquette was so gay and so pretty that she was called everywhere by no other name than "la Chantefleurie"--blossoming song.poor girl!She had handsome teeth, she was fond of laughing and displaying them.Now, a maid who loves to laugh is on the road to weeping; handsome teeth ruin handsome eyes.So she was la Chantefleurie.She and her mother earned a precarious living; they had been very destitute since the death of the minstrel; their embroidery did not bring them in more than six farthings a week, which does not amount to quite two eagle liards.Where were the days when Father Guybertant had earned twelve sous parisian, in a single coronation, with a song?One winter (it was in that same year of '61), when the two women had neither fagots nor firewood, it was very cold, which gave la Chantefleurie such a fine color that the men called her paquette!* and many called her p¨¤querette!** and she was ruined.--Eustache, just let me see you bite that cake if you dare!--We immediately perceived that she was ruined, one Sunday when she came to church with a gold cross about her neck. At fourteen years of age! do you see?First it was the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil, who has his bell tower three leagues distant from Reims; then Messire Henri de Triancourt, equerry to the King; then less than that, Chiart de Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still descending, Guery Aubergeon, carver to the King; then, Mace de Fr¨¦pus, barber to monsieur the dauphin; then, Th¨¦venin le Moine, King's cook; then, the men growing continually younger and less noble, she fell to Guillaume Racine, minstrel of the hurdy gurdy and to Thierry de Mer, lamplighter.Then, poor Chantefleurie, she belonged to every one: she had reached the last sou of her gold piece.What shall I say to you, my damoiselles?At the coronation, in the same year, '61, 'twas she who made the bed of the king of the debauchees!In the same year!"
*Ox-eye daisy.
**Easter daisy.
Mahiette sighed, and wiped away a tear which trickled from her eyes.
"This is no very extraordinary history," said Gervaise, "and in the whole of it I see nothing of any Egyptian women or children."
"patience!" resumed Mahiette, "you will see one child.--In '66, 'twill be sixteen years ago this month, at Sainte- paule's day, paquette was brought to bed of a little girl. The unhappy creature! it was a great joy to her; she had long wished for a child.Her mother, good woman, who had never known what to do except to shut her eyes, her mother was dead.paquette had no longer any one to love in the world or any one to love her.La Chantefleurie had been a poor creature during the five years since her fall.She was alone, alone in this life, fingers were pointed at her, she was hooted at in the streets, beaten by the sergeants, jeered at by the little boys in rags.And then, twenty had arrived: and twenty is an old age for amorous women.Folly began to bring her in no more than her trade of embroidery in former days; for every wrinkle that came, a crown fled; winter became hard to her once more, wood became rare again in her brazier, and bread in her cupboard.She could no longer work because, in becoming voluptuous, she had grown lazy; and she suffered much more because, in growing lazy, she had become voluptuous. At least, that is the way in which monsieur the cure of Saint-Remy explains why these women are colder and hungrier than other poor women, when they are old."
"Yes," remarked Gervaise, "but the gypsies?"
"One moment, Gervaise!" said Oudarde, whose attention was less impatient."What would be left for the end if all were in the beginning?Continue, Mahiette, I entreat you. That poor Chantefleurie!"
Mahiette went on.
"So she was very sad, very miserable, and furrowed her cheeks with tears.But in the midst of her shame, her folly, her debauchery, it seemed to her that she should be less wild, less shameful, less dissipated, if there were something or some one in the world whom she could love, and who could love her.It was necessary that it should be a child, because only a child could be sufficiently innocent for that.She had recognized this fact after having tried to love a thief, the only man who wanted her; but after a short time, she perceived that the thief despised her.Those women of love require either a lover or a child to fill their hearts.Otherwise, they are very unhappy.As she could not have a lover, she turned wholly towards a desire for a child, and as she had not ceased to be pious, she made her constant prayer to the good God for it.So the good God took pity on her, and gave her a little daughter.I will not speak to you of her joy; it was a fury of tears, and caresses, and kisses.She nursed her child herself, made swaddling-bands for it out of her coverlet, the only one which she had on her bed, and no longer felt either cold or hunger.She became beautiful once more, in consequence of it.An old maid makes a young mother.Gallantry claimed her once more; men came to see la Chantefleurie; she found customers again for her merchandise, and out of all these horrors she made baby clothes, caps and bibs, bodices with shoulder-straps of lace, and tiny bonnets of satin, without even thinking of buying herself another coverlet.--Master Eustache, I have already told you not to eat that cake.--It is certain that little Agnes, that was the child's name, a baptismal name, for it was a long time since la Chantefleurie had had any surname--it is certain that that little one was more swathed in ribbons and embroideries than a dauphiness of Dauphiny!Among other things, she had a pair of little shoes, the like of which King Louis XI. certainly never had!Her mother had stitched and embroidered them herself; she had lavished on them all the delicacies of her art of embroideress, and all the embellishments of a robe for the good Virgin.They certainly were the two prettiest little pink shoes that could be seen.They were no longer than my thumb, and one had to see the child's little feet come out of them, in order to believe that they had been able to get into them.'Tis true that those little feet were so small, so pretty, so rosy! rosier than the satin of the shoes!When you have children, Oudarde, you will find that there is nothing prettier than those little hands and feet."
"I ask no better," said Oudarde with a sigh, "but I am waiting until it shall suit the good pleasure of M. Andry Musnier."
"However, paquette's child had more that was pretty about it besides its feet.I saw her when she was only four months old; she was a love!She had eyes larger than her mouth, and the most charming black hair, which already curled.She would have been a magnificent brunette at the age of sixteen! Her mother became more crazy over her every day.She kissed her, caressed her, tickled her, washed her, decked her out, devoured her!She lost her head over her, she thanked God for her.Her pretty, little rosy feet above all were an endless source of wonderment, they were a delirium of joy! She was always pressing her lips to them, and she could never recover from her amazement at their smallness.She put them into the tiny shoes, took them out, admired them, marvelled at them, looked at the light through them, was curious to see them try to walk on her bed, and would gladly have passed her life on her knees, putting on and taking off the shoes from those feet, as though they had been those of an Infant Jesus."
"The tale is fair and good," said Gervaise in a low tone; "but where do gypsies come into all that?"
"Here," replied Mahiette."One day there arrived in Reims a very queer sort of people.They were beggars and vagabonds who were roaming over the country, led by their duke and their counts.They were browned by exposure to the sun, they had closely curling hair, and silver rings in their ears.The women were still uglier than the men.They had blacker faces, which were always uncovered, a miserable frock on their bodies, an old cloth woven of cords bound upon their shoulder, and their hair hanging like the tail of a horse.The children who scrambled between their legs would have frightened as many monkeys.A band of excommunicates. All these persons came direct from lower Egypt to Reims through poland.The pope had confessed them, it was said, and had prescribed to them as penance to roam through the world for seven years, without sleeping in a bed; and so they were called penancers, and smelt horribly.It appears that they had formerly been Saracens, which was why they believed in Jupiter, and claimed ten livres of Tournay from all archbishops, bishops, and mitred abbots with croziers. A bull from the pope empowered them to do that.They came to Reims to tell fortunes in the name of the King of Algiers, and the Emperor of Germany.You can readily imagine that no more was needed to cause the entrance to the town to be forbidden them.Then the whole band camped with good grace outside the gate of Braine, on that hill where stands a mill, beside the cavities of the ancient chalk pits.And everybody in Reims vied with his neighbor in going to see them. They looked at your hand, and told you marvellous prophecies; they were equal to predicting to Judas that he would become pope.Nevertheless, ugly rumors were in circulation in regard to them; about children stolen, purses cut, and human flesh devoured.The wise people said to the foolish: "Don't go there!" and then went themselves on the sly.It was an infatuation.The fact is, that they said things fit to astonish a cardinal.Mothers triumphed greatly over their little ones after the Egyptians had read in their hands all sorts of marvels written in pagan and in Turkish.One had an emperor; another, a pope; another, a captain.poor Chantefleurie was seized with curiosity; she wished to know about herself, and whether her pretty little Agnes would not become some day Empress of Armenia, or something else.So she carried her to the Egyptians; and the Egyptian women fell to admiring the child, and to caressing it, and to kissing it with their black mouths, and to marvelling over its little band, alas! to the great joy of the mother.They were especially enthusiastic over her pretty feet and shoes.The child was not yet a year old.She already lisped a little, laughed at her mother like a little mad thing, was plump and quite round, and possessed a thousand charming little gestures of the angels of paradise.

¡¶BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER III.HISTORY OF A LEAVENED CAKE OF MAIZE. Page 2¡·
She was very much frightened by the Egyptians, and wept. But her mother kissed her more warmly and went away enchanted with the good fortune which the soothsayers had foretold for her Agnes.She was to be a beauty, virtuous, a queen. So she returned to her attic in the Rue Folle-peine, very proud of bearing with her a queen.The next day she took advantage of a moment when the child was asleep on her bed, (for they always slept together), gently left the door a little way open, and ran to tell a neighbor in the Rue de la S¨¦chesserie, that the day would come when her daughter Agnes would be served at table by the King of England and the Archduke of Ethiopia, and a hundred other marvels.On her return, hearing no cries on the staircase, she said to herself: 'Good! the child is still asleep!'She found her door wider open than she had left it, but she entered, poor mother, and ran to the bed.---The child was no longer there, the place was empty.Nothing remained of the child, but one of her pretty little shoes.She flew out of the room, dashed down the stairs, and began to beat her head against the wall, crying: 'My child! who has my child?Who has taken my child?'The street was deserted, the house isolated; no one could tell her anything about it.She went about the town, searched all the streets, ran hither and thither the whole day long, wild, beside herself, terrible, snuffing at doors and windows like a wild beast which has lost its young.She was breathless, dishevelled, frightful to see, and there was a fire in her eyes which dried her tears.She stopped the passers-by and cried: 'My daughter! my daughter! my pretty little daughter! If any one will give me back my daughter, I will he his servant, the servant of his dog, and he shall eat my heart if he will.'She met M. le Cur¨¦ of Saint- Remy, and said to him: 'Monsieur, I will till the earth with my finger-nails, but give me back my child!'It was heartrending, Oudarde; and IL saw a very hard man, Master ponce Lacabre, the procurator, weep.Ah! poor mother!In the evening she returned home.During her absence, a neighbor had seen two gypsies ascend up to it with a bundle in their arms, then descend again, after closing the door.After their departure, something like the cries of a child were heard in paquette's room.The mother, burst into shrieks of laughter, ascended the stairs as though on wings, and entered.--A frightful thing to tell, Oudarde!Instead of her pretty little Agnes, so rosy and so fresh, who was a gift of the good God, a sort of hideous little monster, lame, one-eyed, deformed, was crawling and squalling over the floor.She hid her eyes in horror.'Oh!' said she, 'have the witches transformed my daughter into this horrible animal?'They hastened to carry away the little club-foot; he would have driven her mad.It was the monstrous child of some gypsy woman, who had given herself to the devil.He appeared to be about four years old, and talked a language which was no human tongue; there were words in it which were impossible.La Chantefleurie flung herself upon the little shoe, all that remained to her of all that she loved.She remained so long motionless over it, mute, and without breath, that they thought she was dead. Suddenly she trembled all over, covered her relic with furious kisses, and burst out sobbing as though her heart were broken. I assure you that we were all weeping also.She said: 'Oh, my little daughter! my pretty little daughter! where art thou?'--and it wrung your very heart.I weep still when I think of it.Our children are the marrow of our bones, you see.---My poor Eustache! thou art so fair!--If you only knew how nice he is! yesterday he said to me: 'I want to be a gendarme, that I do.'Oh! my Eustache! if I were to lose thee!--All at once la Chantefleurie rose, and set out to run through Reims, screaming: 'To the gypsies' camp! to the gypsies' camp!police, to burn the witches!'The gypsies were gone.It was pitch dark.They could not be followed. On the morrow, two leagues from Reims, on a heath between Gueux and Tilloy, the remains of a large fire were found, some ribbons which had belonged to paquette's child, drops of blood, and the dung of a ram.The night just past had been a Saturday.There was no longer any doubt that the Egyptians had held their Sabbath on that heath, and that they had devoured the child in company with Beelzebub, as the practice is among the Mahometans.When La Chantefleurie learned these horrible things, she did not weep, she moved her lips as though to speak, but could not.On the morrow, her hair was gray.On the second day, she had disappeared.
"'Tis in truth, a frightful tale," said Oudarde, "and one which would make even a Burgundian weep."
"I am no longer surprised," added Gervaise, "that fear of the gypsies should spur you on so sharply."
"And you did all the better," resumed Oudarde, "to flee with your Eustache just now, since these also are gypsies from poland."
"No," said Gervais, "'tis said that they come from Spain and Catalonia."
"Catalonia? 'tis possible," replied Oudarde."pologne, Catalogue, Valogne, I always confound those three provinces, One thing is certain, that they are gypsies."
"Who certainly," added Gervaise, "have teeth long enough to eat little children.I should not be surprised if la Sm¨¦ralda ate a little of them also, though she pretends to be dainty. Her white goat knows tricks that are too malicious for there not to be some impiety underneath it all."
Mahiette walked on in silence.She was absorbed in that revery which is, in some sort, the continuation of a mournful tale, and which ends only after having communicated the emotion, from vibration to vibration, even to the very last fibres of the heart.Nevertheless, Gervaise addressed her, "And did they ever learn what became of la Chantefleurie?" Mahiette made no reply.Gervaise repeated her question, and shook her arm, calling her by name.Mahiette appeared to awaken from her thoughts.
"What became of la Chantefleurie?" she said, repeating mechanically the words whose impression was still fresh in her ear; then, ma king an effort to recall her attention to the meaning of her words, "Ah!" she continued briskly, "no one ever found out."
She added, after a pause,--
"Some said that she had been seen to quit Reims at nightfall by the Fl¨¦chembault gate; others, at daybreak, by the old Bas¨¦e gate.A poor man found her gold cross hanging on the stone cross in the field where the fair is held.It was that ornament which had wrought her ruin, in '61.It was a gift from the handsome Vicomte de Cormontreuil, her first lover. paquette had never been willing to part with it, wretched as she had been.She had clung to it as to life itself.So, when we saw that cross abandoned, we all thought that she was dead.Nevertheless, there were people of the Cabaret les Vantes, who said that they had seen her pass along the road to paris, walking on the pebbles with her bare feet.But, in that case, she must have gone out through the porte de Vesle, and all this does not agree.Or, to speak more truly, I believe that she actually did depart by the porte de Vesle, but departed from this world."
"I do not understand you," said Gervaise.
"La Vesle," replied Mahiette, with a melancholy smile, "is the river."
"poor Chantefleurie!" said Oudarde, with a shiver,--"drowned!"
"Drowned!" resumed Mahiette, "who could have told good Father Guybertant, when he passed under the bridge of Tingueux with the current, singing in his barge, that one day his dear little paquette would also pass beneath that bridge, but without song or boat.
"And the little shoe?" asked Gervaise.
"Disappeared with the mother," replied Mahiette.
"poor little shoe!" said Oudarde.
Oudarde, a big and tender woman, would have been well pleased to sigh in company with Mahiette.But Gervaise, more curious, had not finished her questions.
"And the monster?" she said suddenly, to Mahiette.
"What monster?" inquired the latter.
"The little gypsy monster left by the sorceresses in Chantefleurie's chamber, in exchange for her daughter.What did you do with it?I hope you drowned it also."
"No." replied Mahiette.
"What?You burned it then?In sooth, that is more just. A witch child!"
"Neither the one nor the other, Gervaise.Monseigneur the archbishop interested himself in the child of Egypt, exorcised it, blessed it, removed the devil carefully from its body, and sent it to paris, to be exposed on the wooden bed at Notre- Dame, as a foundling."
"Those bishops!" grumbled Gervaise, "because they are learned, they do nothing like anybody else.I just put it to you, Oudarde, the idea of placing the devil among the foundlings!For that little monster was assuredly the devil. Well, Mahiette, what did they do with it in paris?I am quite sure that no charitable person wanted it."
"I do not know," replied the R¨¦moise, "'twas just at that time that my husband bought the office of notary, at Bern, two leagues from the town, and we were no longer occupied with that story; besides, in front of Bern, stand the two hills of Cernay, which hide the towers of the cathedral in Reims from view."
While chatting thus, the three worthy ~bourgeoises~ had arrived at the place de Gr¨¨ve.In their absorption, they had passed the public breviary of the Tour-Roland without stopping, and took their way mechanically towards the pillory around which the throng was growing more dense with every moment.It is probable that the spectacle which at that moment attracted all looks in that direction, would have made them forget completely the Rat-Hole, and the halt which they intended to make there, if big Eustache, six years of age, whom Mahiette was dragging along by the hand, had not abruptly recalled the object to them: "Mother," said he, as though some instinct warned him that the Rat-Hole was behind him, "can I eat the cake now?"
If Eustache had been more adroit, that is to say, less greedy, he would have continued to wait, and would only have hazarded that simple question, "Mother, can I eat the cake, now?" on their return to the University, to Master Andry Musnier's, Rue Madame la Valence, when he had the two arms of the Seine and the five bridges of the city between the Rat-Hole and the cake.
This question, highly imprudent at the moment when Eustache put it, aroused Mahiette's attention.
"By the way," she exclaimed, "we are forgetting the recluse!Show me the Rat-Hole, that I may carry her her cake."
"Immediately," said Oudarde, "'tis a charity."
But this did not suit Eustache.
"Stop! my cake!" said he, rubbing both ears alternatively with his shoulders, which, in such cases, is the supreme sign of discontent.
The three women retraced their steps, and, on arriving in the vicinity of the Tour-Roland, Oudarde said to the other two,--
"We must not all three gaze into the hole at once, for fear of alarming the recluse.Do you two pretend to read the _Dominus_ in the breviary, while I thrust my nose into the aperture; the recluse knows me a little.I will give you warning when you can approach."
She proceeded alone to the window.At the moment when she looked in, a profound pity was depicted on all her features, and her frank, gay visage altered its expression and color as abruptly as though it had passed from a ray of sunlight to a ray of moonlight; her eye became humid; her mouth contracted, like that of a person on the point of weeping.A moment later, she laid her finger on her lips, and made a sign to Mahiette to draw near and look.
Mahiette, much touched, stepped up in silence, on tiptoe, as though approaching the bedside of a dying person.
It was, in fact, a melancholy spectacle which presented itself to the eyes of the two women, as they gazed through the grating of the Rat-Hole, neither stirring nor breathing.
The cell was small, broader than it was long, with an arched ceiling, and viewed from within, it bore a considerable resemblance to the interior of a huge bishop's mitre.On the bare flagstones which formed the floor, in one corner, a woman was sitting, or rather, crouching.Her chin rested on her knees, which her crossed arms pressed forcibly to her breast. Thus doubled up, clad in a brown sack, which enveloped her entirely in large folds, her long, gray hair pulled over in front, falling over her face and along her legs nearly to her feet, she presented, at the first glance, only a strange form outlined against the dark background of the cell, a sort of dusky triangle, which the ray of daylight falling through the opening, cut roughly into two shades, the one sombre, the other illuminated.It was one of those spectres, half light, half shadow, such as one beholds in dreams and in the extraordinary work of Goya, pale, motionless, sinister, crouching over a tomb, or leaning against the grating of a prison cell.
It was neither a woman, nor a man, nor a living being, nor a definite form; it was a figure, a sort of vision, in which the real and the fantastic intersected each other, like darkness and day.It was with difficulty that one distinguished, beneath her hair which spread to the ground, a gaunt and severe profile; her dress barely allowed the extremity of a bare foot to escape, which contracted on the hard, cold pavement. The little of human form of which one caught a sight beneath this envelope of mourning, caused a shudder.
That figure, which one might have supposed to be riveted to the flagstones, appeared to possess neither movement, nor thought, nor breath.Lying, in January, in that thin, linen sack, lying on a granite floor, without fire, in the gloom of a cell whose oblique air-hole allowed only the cold breeze, but never the sun, to enter from without, she did not appear to suffer or even to think.One would have said that she had turned to stone with the cell, ice with the season.Her hands were clasped, her eyes fixed.At first sight one took her for a spectre; at the second, for a statue.
Nevertheless, at intervals, her blue lips half opened to admit a breath, and trembled, but as dead and as mechanical as the leaves which the wind sweeps aside.
Nevertheless, from her dull eyes there escaped a look, an ineffable look, a profound, lugubrious, imperturbable look, incessantly fixed upon a corner of the cell which could not be seen from without; a gaze which seemed to fix all the sombre thoughts of that soul in distress upon some mysterious object.
Such was the creature who had received, from her habitation, the name of the "recluse"; and, from her garment, the name of "the sacked nun."
The three women, for Gervaise had rejoined Mahiette and Oudarde, gazed through the window.Their heads intercepted the feeble light in the cell, without the wretched being whom they thus deprived of it seeming to pay any attention to them."Do not let us trouble her," said Oudarde, in a low voice, "she is in her ecstasy; she is praying."
Meanwhile, Mahiette was gazing with ever-increasing anxiety at that wan, withered, dishevelled head, and her eyes filled with tears."This is very singular," she murmured.
She thrust her head through the bars, and succeeded in casting a glance at the corner where the gaze of the unhappy woman was immovably riveted.
When she withdrew her head from the window, her countenance was inundated with tears.
"What do you call that woman?" she asked Oudarde.
Oudarde replied,--
"We call her Sister Gudule."
"And I," returned Mahiette, "call her paquette la Chantefleurie."
Then, laying her finger on her lips, she motioned to the astounded Oudarde to thrust her head through the window and look.
Oudarde looked and beheld, in the corner where the eyes of the recluse were fixed in that sombre ecstasy, a tiny shoe of pink satin, embroidered with a thousand fanciful designs in gold and silver.
Gervaise looked after Oudarde, and then the three women, gazing upon the unhappy mother, began to weep.
But neither their looks nor their tears disturbed the recluse. Her hands remained clasped; her lips mute; her eyes fixed; and that little shoe, thus gazed at, broke the heart of any one who knew her history.
The three women had not yet uttered a single word; they dared not speak, even in a low voice.This deep silence, this deep grief, this profound oblivion in which everything had disappeared except one thing, produced upon them the effect of the grand altar at Christmas or Easter.They remained silent, they meditated, they were ready to kneel.It seemed to them that they were ready to enter a church on the day of Tenebrae.
At length Gervaise, the most curious of the three, and consequently the least sensitive, tried to make the recluse speak:
"Sister!Sister Gudule!"
She repeated this call three times, raising her voice each time.The recluse did not move; not a word, not a glance, not a sigh, not a sign of life.
Oudarde, in her turn, in a sweeter, more caressing voice,--"Sister!" said she, "Sister Sainte-Gudule!"
The same silence; the same immobility.
"A singular woman!" exclaimed Gervaise, "and one not to be moved by a catapult!"
"perchance she is deaf," said Oudarde.
"perhaps she is blind," added Gervaise.
"Dead, perchance," returned Mahiette.
It is certain that if the soul had not already quitted this inert, sluggish, lethargic body, it had at least retreated and concealed itself in depths whither the perceptions of the exterior organs no longer penetrated.
"Then we must leave the cake on the window," said Oudarde; "some scamp will take it.What shall we do to rouse her?"
Eustache, who, up to that moment had been diverted by a little carriage drawn by a large dog, which had just passed, suddenly perceived that his three conductresses were gazing at something through the window, and, curiosity taking possession of him in his turn, he climbed upon a stone post, elevated himself on tiptoe, and applied his fat, red face to the opening, shouting, "Mother, let me see too!"
At the sound of this clear, fresh, ringing child's voice, the recluse trembled; she turned her head with the sharp, abrupt movement of a steel spring, her long, fleshless hands cast aside the hair from her brow, and she fixed upon the child, bitter, astonished, desperate eyes.This glance was but a lightning flash.
"Oh my God!" she suddenly exclaimed, hiding her head on her knees, and it seemed as though her hoarse voice tore her chest as it passed from it, "do not show me those of others!"
"Good day, madam," said the child, gravely.
Nevertheless, this shock had, so to speak, awakened the recluse.A long shiver traversed her frame from head to foot; her teeth chattered; she half raised her head and said, pressing her elbows against her hips, and clasping her feet in her hands as though to warm them,--
"Oh, how cold it is!"
"poor woman!" said Oudarde, with great compassion, "would you like a little fire?"
She shook her head in token of refusal.
"Well," resumed Oudarde, presenting her with a flagon; "here is some hippocras which will warm you; drink it."
Again she shook her head, looked at Oudarde fixedly and replied, "Water."
Oudarde persisted,--"No, sister, that is no beverage for January.You must drink a little hippocras and eat this leavened cake of maize, which we have baked for you."
She refused the cake which Mahiette offered to her, and said, "Black bread."
"Come," said Gervaise, seized in her turn with an impulse of charity, and unfastening her woolen cloak, "here is a cloak which is a little warmer than yours."
She refused the cloak as she had refused the flagon and the cake, and replied, "A sack."
"But," resumed the good Oudarde, "you must have perceived to some extent, that yesterday was a festival."
"I do perceive it," said the recluse; "'tis two days now since I have had any water in my crock."
She added, after a silence, "'Tis a festival, I am forgotten. people do well.Why should the world think of me, when I do not think of it?Cold charcoal makes cold ashes."
And as though fatigued with having said so much, she dropped her head on her knees again.The simple and charitable Oudarde, who fancied that she understood from her last words that she was complaining of the cold, replied innocently, "Then you would like a little fire?"
"Fire!" said the sacked nun, with a strange accent; "and will you also make a little for the poor little one who has been beneath the sod for these fifteen years?"
Every limb was trembling, her voice quivered, her eyes flashed, she had raised herself upon her knees; suddenly she extended her thin, white hand towards the child, who was regarding her with a look of astonishment."Take away that child!" she cried."The Egyptian woman is about to pass by."
Then she fell face downward on the earth, and her forehead struck the stone, with the sound of one stone against another stone.The three women thought her dead.A moment later, however, she moved, and they beheld her drag herself, on her knees and elbows, to the corner where the little shoe was. Then they dared not look; they no longer saw her; but they heard a thousand kisses and a thousand sighs, mingled with heartrending cries, and dull blows like those of a head in contact with a wall.Then, after one of these blows, so violent that all three of them staggered, they heard no more.
"Can she have killed herself?" said Gervaise, venturing to pass her head through the air-hole."Sister!Sister Gudule!"
"Sister Gudule!" repeated Oudarde.
"Ah! good heavens! she no longer moves!" resumed Gervaise; "is she dead?Gudule!Gudule!"
Mahiette, choked to such a point that she could not speak, made an effort."Wait," said she.Then bending towards the window, "paquette!" she said, "paquette le Chantefleurie!"
A child who innocently blows upon the badly ignited fuse of a bomb, and makes it explode in his face, is no more terrified than was Mahiette at the effect of that name, abruptly launched into the cell of Sister Gudule.
The recluse trembled all over, rose erect on her bare feet, and leaped at the window with eyes so glaring that Mahiette and Oudarde, and the other woman and the child recoiled even to the parapet of the quay.
Meanwhile, the sinister face of the recluse appeared pressed to the grating of the air-hole."Oh! oh!" she cried, with an appalling laugh; "'tis the Egyptian who is calling me!"
At that moment, a scene which was passing at the pillory caught her wild eye.Her brow contracted with horror, she stretched her two skeleton arms from her cell, and shrieked in a voice which resembled a death-rattle, "So 'tis thou once more, daughter of Egypt!'Tis thou who callest me, stealer of children!Well!Be thou accursed! accursed! accursed! accursed!"

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¡¶BOOK SIXTH CHAPTER IV.A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATER.¡·
These words were, so to speak, the point of union of two scenes, which had, up to that time, been developed in parallel lines at the same moment, each on its particular theatre; one, that which the reader has just perused, in the Rat-Hole; the other, which he is about to read, on the ladder of the pillory.The first had for witnesses only the three women with whom the reader has just made acquaintance; the second had for spectators all the public which we have seen above, collecting on the place de Gr¨¨ve, around the pillory and the gibbet.
That crowd which the four sergeants posted at nine o'clock in the morning at the four corners of the pillory had inspired with the hope of some sort of an execution, no doubt, not a hanging, but a whipping, a cropping of ears, something, in short,--that crowd had increased so rapidly that the four policemen, too closely besieged, had had occasion to "press" it, as the expression then ran, more than once, by sound blows of their whips, and the haunches of their horses.
This populace, disciplined to waiting for public executions, did not manifest very much impatience.It amused itself with watching the pillory, a very simple sort of monument, composed of a cube of masonry about six feet high and hollow in the interior.A very steep staircase, of unhewn stone, which was called by distinction "the ladder," led to the upper platform, upon which was visible a horizontal wheel of solid oak.The victim was bound upon this wheel, on his knees, with his hands behind his back.A wooden shaft, which set in motion a capstan concealed in the interior of the little edifice, imparted a rotatory motion to the wheel, which always maintained its horizontal position, and in this manner presented the face of the condemned man to all quarters of the square in succession.This was what was called "turning" a criminal.
As the reader perceives, the pillory of the Gr¨¨ve was far from presenting all the recreations of the pillory of the Halles. Nothing architectural, nothing monumental.No roof to the iron cross, no octagonal lantern, no frail, slender columns spreading out on the edge of the roof into capitals of acanthus leaves and flowers, no waterspouts of chimeras and monsters, on carved woodwork, no fine sculpture, deeply sunk in the stone.
They were forced to content themselves with those four stretches of rubble work, backed with sandstone, and a wretched stone gibbet, meagre and bare, on one side.
The entertainment would have been but a poor one for lovers of Gothic architecture.It is true that nothing was ever less curious on the score of architecture than the worthy gapers of the Middle Ages, and that they cared very little for the beauty of a pillory.
The victim finally arrived, bound to the tail of a cart, and when he had been hoisted upon the platform, where he could be seen from all points of the place, bound with cords and straps upon the wheel of the pillory, a prodigious hoot, mingled with laughter and acclamations, burst forth upon the place.They had recognized Quasimodo.
It was he, in fact.The change was singular.pilloried on the very place where, on the day before, he had been saluted, acclaimed, and proclaimed pope and prince of Fools, in the cortege of the Duke of Egypt, the King of Thunes, and the Emperor of Galilee!One thing is certain, and that is, that there was not a soul in the crowd, not even himself, though in turn triumphant and the sufferer, who set forth this combination clearly in his thought.Gringoire and his philosophy were missing at this spectacle.
Soon Michel Noiret, sworn trumpeter to the king, our lord, imposed silence on the louts, and proclaimed the sentence, in accordance with the order and command of monsieur the provost. Then he withdrew behind the cart, with his men in livery surcoats.
Quasimodo, impassible, did not wince.All resistance had been rendered impossible to him by what was then called, in the style of the criminal chancellery, "the vehemence and firmness of the bonds" which means that the thongs and chains probably cut into his flesh; moreover, it is a tradition of jail and wardens, which has not been lost, and which the handcuffs still preciously preserve among us, a civilized, gentle, humane people (the galleys and the guillotine in parentheses).
He had allowed himself to be led, pushed, carried, lifted, bound, and bound again.Nothing was to be seen upon his countenance but the astonishment of a savage or an idiot. He was known to be deaf; one might have pronounced him to be blind.
They placed him on his knees on the circular plank; he made no resistance.They removed his shirt and doublet as far as his girdle; he allowed them to have their way.They entangled him under a fresh system of thongs and buckles; he allowed them to bind and buckle him.Only from time to time he snorted noisily, like a calf whose head is hanging and bumping over the edge of a butcher's cart.
"The dolt," said Jehan Frollo of the Mill, to his friend Robin poussepain (for the two students had followed the culprit, as was to have been expected), "he understands no more than a cockchafer shut up in a box!"
There was wild laughter among the crowd when they beheld Quasimodo's hump, his camel's breast, his callous and hairy shoulders laid bare.During this gayety, a man in the livery of the city, short of stature and robust of mien, mounted the platform and placed himself near the victim.His name speedily circulated among the spectators.It was Master pierrat Torterue, official torturer to the Chatelet.
He began by depositing on an angle of the pillory a black hour-glass, the upper lobe of which was filled with red sand, which it allowed to glide into the lower receptacle; then he removed his parti-colored surtout, and there became visible, suspended from his right hand, a thin and tapering whip of long, white, shining, knotted, plaited thongs, armed with metal nails.With his left hand, he negligently folded back his shirt around his right arm, to the very armpit.
In the meantime, Jehan Frollo, elevating his curly blonde head above the crowd (he had mounted upon the shoulders of Robin poussepain for the purpose), shouted: "Come and look, gentle ladies and men! they are going to peremptorily flagellate Master Quasimodo, the bellringer of my brother, monsieur the archdeacon of Josas, a knave of oriental architecture, who has a back like a dome, and legs like twisted columns!"
And the crowd burst into a laugh, especially the boys and young girls.
At length the torturer stamped his foot.The wheel began to turn.Quasimodo wavered beneath his bonds.The amazement which was suddenly depicted upon his deformed face caused the bursts of laughter to redouble around him.
All at once, at the moment when the wheel in its revolution presented to Master pierrat, the humped back of Quasimodo, Master pierrat raised his arm; the fine thongs whistled sharply through the air, like a handful of adders, and fell with fury upon the wretch's shoulders.
Quasimodo leaped as though awakened with a start.He began to understand.He writhed in his bonds; a violent contraction of surprise and pain distorted the muscles of his face, but he uttered not a single sigh.He merely turned his head backward, to the right, then to the left, balancing it as a bull does who has been stung in the flanks by a gadfly.
A second blow followed the first, then a third, and another and another, and still others.The wheel did not cease to turn, nor the blows to rain down.
Soon the blood burst forth, and could be seen trickling in a thousand threads down the hunchback's black shoulders; and the slender thongs, in their rotatory motion which rent the air, sprinkled drops of it upon the crowd.
Quasimodo had resumed, to all appearance, his first imperturbability.He had at first tried, in a quiet way and without much outward movement, to break his bonds.His eye had been seen to light up, his muscles to stiffen, his members to concentrate their force, and the straps to stretch.The effort was powerful, prodigious, desperate; but the provost's seasoned bonds resisted.They cracked, and that was all.Quasimodo fell back exhausted.Amazement gave way, on his features, to a sentiment of profound and bitter discouragement.He closed his single eye, allowed his head to droop upon his breast, and feigned death.
From that moment forth, he stirred no more.Nothing could force a movement from him.Neither his blood, which did not cease to flow, nor the blows which redoubled in fury, nor the wrath of the torturer, who grew excited himself and intoxicated with the execution, nor the sound of the horrible thongs, more sharp and whistling than the claws of scorpions.
At length a bailiff from the Chatelet clad in black, mounted on a black horse, who had been stationed beside the ladder since the beginning of the execution, extended his ebony wand towards the hour-glass.The torturer stopped.The wheel stopped.Quasimodo's eye opened slowly.
The scourging was finished.Two lackeys of the official torturer bathed the bleeding shoulders of the patient, anointed them with some unguent which immediately closed all the wounds, and threw upon his back a sort of yellow vestment, in cut like a chasuble.In the meanwhile, pierrat Torterue allowed the thongs, red and gorged with blood, to drip upon the pavement.
All was not over for Quasimodo.He had still to undergo that hour of pillory which Master Florian Barbedienne had so judiciously added to the sentence of Messire Robert d'Estouteville; all to the greater glory of the old physiological and psychological play upon words of Jean de Cum¨¨ne, ~Surdus absurdus~: a deaf man is absurd.
So the hour-glass was turned over once more, and they left the hunchback fastened to the plank, in order that justice might be accomplished to the very end.
The populace, especially in the Middle Ages, is in society what the child is in the family.As long as it remains in its state of primitive ignorance, of moral and intellectual minority, it can be said of it as of the child,--
'Tis the pitiless age.
We have already shown that Quasimodo was generally hated, for more than one good reason, it is true.There was hardly a spectator in that crowd who had not or who did not believe that he had reason to complain of the malevolent hunchback of Notre-Dame.The joy at seeing him appear thus in the pillory had been universal; and the harsh punishment which he had just suffered, and the pitiful condition in which it had left him, far from softening the populace had rendered its hatred more malicious by arming it with a touch of mirth.
Hence, the "public prosecution" satisfied, as the bigwigs of the law still express it in their jargon, the turn came of a thousand private vengeances.Here, as in the Grand Hall, the women rendered themselves particularly prominent.All cherished some rancor against him, some for his malice, others for his ugliness.The latter were the most furious.
"Oh! mask of Antichrist!" said one.
"Rider on a broom handle!" cried another.
"What a fine tragic grimace," howled a third, "and who would make him pope of the Fools if to-day were yesterday?"
"'Tis well," struck in an old woman."This is the grimace of the pillory.When shall we have that of the gibbet?"
"When will you be coiffed with your big bell a hundred feet under ground, cursed bellringer?"
"But 'tis the devil who rings the Angelus!"
"Oh! the deaf man! the one-eyed creature! the hunch- back! the monster!"
"A face to make a woman miscarry better than all the drugs and medicines!"
And the two scholars, Jehan du Moulin, and Robin poussepain, sang at the top of their lungs, the ancient refrain,--
"~Une hart pour le pendard! Un fagot pour le magot~!"*
*A rope for the gallows bird!A fagot for the ape.
A thousand other insults rained down upon him, and hoots and imprecations, and laughter, and now and then, stones.
Quasimodo was deaf but his sight was clear, and the public fury was no less energetically depicted on their visages than in their words.Moreover, the blows from the stones explained the bursts of laughter.
At first he held his ground.But little by little that patience which had borne up under the lash of the torturer, yielded and gave way before all these stings of insects.The bull of the Asturias who has been but little moved by the attacks of the picador grows irritated with the dogs and banderilleras.
He first cast around a slow glance of hatred upon the crowd. But bound as he was, his glance was powerless to drive away those flies which were stinging his wound.Then he moved in his bonds, and his furious exertions made the ancient wheel of the pillory shriek on its axle.All this only increased the derision and hooting.
Then the wretched man, unable to break his collar, like that of a chained wild beast, became tranquil once more; only at intervals a sigh of rage heaved the hollows of his chest. There was neither shame nor redness on his face.He was too far from the state of society, and too near the state of nature to know what shame was.Moreover, with such a degree of deformity, is infamy a thing that can be felt?But wrath, hatred, despair, slowly lowered over that hideous visage a cloud which grew ever more and more sombre, ever more and more charged with electricity, which burst forth in a thousand lightning flashes from the eye of the cyclops.
Nevertheless, that cloud cleared away for a moment, at the passage of a mule which traversed the crowd, bearing a priest. As far away as he could see that mule and that priest, the poor victim's visage grew gentler.The fury which had contracted it was followed by a strange smile full of ineffable sweetness, gentleness, and tenderness.In proportion as the priest approached, that smile became more clear, more distinct, more radiant.It was like the arrival of a Saviour, which the unhappy man was greeting.But as soon as the mule was near enough to the pillory to allow of its rider recognizing the victim, the priest dropped his eyes, beat a hasty retreat, spurred on rigorously, as though in haste to rid himself of humiliating appeals, and not at all desirous of being saluted and recognized by a poor fellow in such a predicament.
This priest was Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.
The cloud descended more blackly than ever upon Quasimodo's brow. The smile was still mingled with it for a time, but was bitter, discouraged, profoundly sad.
Time passed on.He had been there at least an hour and a half, lacerated, maltreated, mocked incessantly, and almost stoned.
All at once he moved again in his chains with redoubled despair, which made the whole framework that bore him tremble, and, breaking the silence which he had obstinately preserved hitherto, he cried in a hoarse and furious voice, which resembled a bark rather than a human cry, and which was drowned in the noise of the hoots--"Drink!"
This exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, only added amusement to the good parisian populace who surrounded the ladder, and who, it must be confessed, taken in the mass and as a multitude, was then no less cruel and brutal than that horrible tribe of robbers among whom we have already conducted the reader, and which was simply the lower stratum of the populace.Not a voice was raised around the unhappy victim, except to jeer at his thirst.It is certain that at that moment he was more grotesque and repulsive than pitiable, with his face purple and dripping, his eye wild, his mouth foaming with rage and pain, and his tongue lolling half out.It must also be stated that if a charitable soul of a bourgeois or ~bourgeoise~, in the rabble, had attempted to carry a glass of water to that wretched creature in torment, there reigned around the infamous steps of the pillory such a prejudice of shame and ignominy, that it would have sufficed to repulse the good Samaritan.
At the expiration of a few moments, Quasimodo cast a desperate glance upon the crowd, and repeated in a voice still more heartrending: "Drink!"
And all began to laugh.
"Drink this!" cried Robin poussepain, throwing in his face a sponge which had been soaked in the gutter."There, you deaf villain, I'm your debtor."
A woman hurled a stone at his head,--
"That will teach you to wake us up at night with your peal of a dammed soul."
"He, good, my son!" howled a cripple, making an effort to reach him with his crutch, "will you cast any more spells on us from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame?"
"Here's a drinking cup!" chimed in a man, flinging a broken jug at his breast."'Twas you that made my wife, simply because she passed near you, give birth to a child with two heads!"
"And my cat bring forth a kitten with six paws!" yelped an old crone, launching a brick at him.
"Drink!" repeated Quasimodo panting, and for the third time.
At that moment he beheld the crowd give way.A young girl, fantastically dressed, emerged from the throng.She was accompanied by a little white goat with gilded horns, and carried a tambourine in her hand.
Quasimodo's eyes sparkled.It was the gypsy whom he had attempted to carry off on the preceding night, a misdeed for which he was dimly conscious that he was being punished at that very moment; which was not in the least the case, since he was being chastised only for the misfortune of being deaf, and of having been judged by a deaf man.He doubted not that she had come to wreak her vengeance also, and to deal her blow like the rest.
He beheld her, in fact, mount the ladder rapidly.Wrath and spite suffocate him.He would have liked to make the pillory crumble into ruins, and if the lightning of his eye could have dealt death, the gypsy would have been reduced to powder before she reached the platform.
She approached, without uttering a syllable, the victim who writhed in a vain effort to escape her, and detaching a gourd from her girdle, she raised it gently to the parched lips of the miserable man.
Then, from that eye which had been, up to that moment, so dry and burning, a big tear was seen to fall, and roll slowly down that deformed visage so long contracted with despair. It was the first, in all probability, that the unfortunate man had ever shed.
Meanwhile, be had forgotten to drink.The gypsy made her little pout, from impatience, and pressed the spout to the tusked month of Quasimodo, with a smile.
He drank with deep draughts.His thirst was burning.
When he had finished, the wretch protruded his black lips, no doubt, with the object of kissing the beautiful hand which had just succoured him.But the young girl, who was, perhaps, somewhat distrustful, and who remembered the violent attempt of the night, withdrew her hand with the frightened gesture of a child who is afraid of being bitten by a beast.
Then the poor deaf man fixed on her a look full of reproach and inexpressible sadness.
It would have been a touching spectacle anywhere,--this beautiful, fresh, pure, and charming girl, who was at the same time so weak, thus hastening to the relief of so much misery, deformity, and malevolence.On the pillory, the spectacle was sublime.
The very populace were captivated by it, and began to clap their hands, crying,--
"Noel!Noel!"
It was at that moment that the recluse caught sight, from the window of her bole, of the gypsy on the pillory, and hurled at her her sinister imprecation,--
"Accursed be thou, daughter of Egypt!Accursed! accursed!"

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER I.THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT. Page 1¡·
Many weeks had elapsed.
The first of March had arrived.The sun, which Dubartas, that classic ancestor of periphrase, had not yet dubbed the "Grand-duke of Candles," was none the less radiant and joyous on that account.It was one of those spring days which possesses so much sweetness and beauty, that all paris turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates them as though they were Sundays.In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there is a certain hour above all others, when the fa?ade of Notre-Dame should be admired. It is the moment when the sun, already declining towards the west, looks the cathedral almost full in the face.Its rays, growing more and more horizontal, withdraw slowly from the pavement of the square, and mount up the perpendicular fa?ade, whose thousand bosses in high relief they cause to start out from the shadows, while the great central rose window flames like the eye of a cyclops, inflamed with the reflections of the forge.
This was the hour.
Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting sun, on the stone balcony built above the porch of a rich Gothic house, which formed the angle of the square and the Rue du parvis, several young girls were laughing and chatting with every sort of grace and mirth.From the length of the veil which fell from their pointed coif, twined with pearls, to their heels, from the fineness of the embroidered chemisette which covered their shoulders and allowed a glimpse, according to the pleasing custom of the time, of the swell of their fair virgin bosoms, from the opulence of their under-petticoats still more precious than their overdress (marvellous refinement), from the gauze, the silk, the velvet, with which all this was composed, and, above all, from the whiteness of their hands, which certified to their leisure and idleness, it was easy to divine they were noble and wealthy heiresses.They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de Champchevrier maiden; all damsels of good birth, assembled at that moment at the house of the dame widow de Gondelaurier, on account of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were to come to paris in the month of April, there to choose maids of honor for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be received in picardy from the hands of the Flemings.Now, all the squires for twenty leagues around were intriguing for this favor for their daughters, and a goodly number of the latter had been already brought or sent to paris.These four maidens had been confided to the discreet and venerable charge of Madame Aloise de Gondelaurier, widow of a former commander of the king's cross-bowmen, who had retired with her only daughter to her house in the place du parvis, Notre- Dame, in paris.
The balcony on which these young girls stood opened from a chamber richly tapestried in fawn-colored Flanders leather, stamped with golden foliage.The beams, which cut the ceiling in parallel lines, diverted the eye with a thousand eccentric painted and gilded carvings.Splendid enamels gleamed here and there on carved chests; a boar's head in faience crowned a magnificent dresser, whose two shelves announced that the mistress of the house was the wife or widow of a knight banneret.At the end of the room, by the side of a lofty chimney blazoned with arms from top to bottom, in a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier, whose five and fifty years were written upon her garments no less distinctly than upon her face.
Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although partaking somewhat of vanity and bravado--one of those handsome fellows whom all women agree to admire, although grave men learned in physiognomy shrug their shoulders at them.This young man wore the garb of a captain of the king's unattached archers, which bears far too much resemblance to the costume of Jupiter, which the reader has already been enabled to admire in the first book of this history, for us to inflict upon him a second description.
The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the balcony, some on square cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden corners, others on stools of oak carved in flowers and figures.Each of them held on her knee a section of a great needlework tapestry, on which they were working in company, while one end of it lay upon the rush mat which covered the floor.
They were chatting together in that whispering tone and with the half-stifled laughs peculiar to an assembly of young girls in whose midst there is a young man.The young man whose presence served to set in play all these feminine self- conceits, appeared to pay very little heed to the matter, and, while these pretty damsels were vying with one another to attract his attention, he seemed to be chiefly absorbed in polishing the buckle of his sword belt with his doeskin glove. From time to time, the old lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as well as he was able, with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness.
From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloise, from the glances which she threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was here a question of some betrothal concluded, some marriage near at hand no doubt, between the young man and Fleur-de-Lys.From the embarrassed coldness of the officer, it was easy to see that on his side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter.His whole air was expressive of constraint and weariness, which our lieutenants of the garrison would to-day translate admirably as, "What a beastly bore!"
The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter, like any other silly mother, did not perceive the officer's lack of enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call his attention to the infinite grace with which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle or wound her skein.
"Come, little cousin," she said to him, plucking him by the sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, "Look at her, do! see her stoop."
"Yes, truly," replied the young man, and fell back into his glacial and absent-minded silence.
A moment later, he was obliged to bend down again, and Dame Aloise said to him,--
"Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than that of your betrothed?Can one be more white and blonde? are not her hands perfect? and that neck--does it not assume all the curves of the swan in ravishing fashion?How I envy you at times! and how happy you are to be a man, naughty libertine that you are!Is not my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately in love with her?"
"Of course," he replied, still thinking of something else.
"But do say something," said Madame Aloise, suddenly giving his shoulder a push; "you have grown very timid."
We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain's virtue nor his defect.But he made an effort to do what was demanded of him.
"Fair cousin," he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, "what is the subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?' "Fair cousin," responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, "I have already told you three times.'Tis the grotto of Neptune."
It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her mother through the captain's cold and absent-minded manner.He felt the necessity of making some conversation.
"And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?"
"For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs," answered Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.
The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.
"Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing out his cheeks to their full extent and blowing a trumpet?"
"'Tis Triton," she replied.
There was a rather pettish intonation in Fleur-de-Lys's-- laconic words.The young man understood that it was indispensable that he should whisper something in her ear, a commonplace, a gallant compliment, no matter what.Accordingly he bent down, but he could find nothing in his imagination more tender and personal than this,--
"Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with armorial designs, like our grandmothers of the time of Charles VII.?Tell her, fair cousin, that 'tis no longer the fashion, and that the hinge (gond) and the laurel (laurier) embroidered on her robe give her the air of a walking mantlepiece. In truth, people no longer sit thus on their banners, I assure you."
Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach, "Is that all of which you can assure me?" she said, in a low voice.
In the meantime, Dame Aloise, delighted to see them thus bending towards each other and whispering, said as she toyed with the clasps of her prayer-book,--
"Touching picture of love!"
The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the subject of the tapestry,--"'Tis, in sooth, a charming work!" he exclaimed.
Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde, with a white skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask, ventured a timid remark which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys, in the hope that the handsome captain would reply to it, "My dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the H?tel de la Roche-Guyon?"
"Is not that the hotel in which is enclosed the garden of the Ling¨¨re du Louvre?" asked Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for she had handsome teeth, and consequently laughed on every occasion.
"And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient wall of paris," added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty fresh and curly-headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing just as the other laughed, without knowing why.
"My dear Colombe," interpolated Dame Aloise, "do you not mean the hotel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the reign of King Charles VI.? there are indeed many superb high warp tapestries there."
"Charles VI.!Charles VI.!" muttered the young captain, twirling his moustache."Good heavens! what old things the good dame does remember!"
Madame de Gondelaurier continued, "Fine tapestries, in truth.A work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled."
At that moment B¨¦rang¨¨re de Champchevrier, a slender little maid of seven years, who was peering into the square through the trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, "Oh! look, fair Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is dancing on the pavement and playing the tambourine in the midst of the loutish bourgeois!"
The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was, in fact, audible. "Some gypsy from Bohemia," said Fleur-de-Lys, turning carelessly toward the square.
"Look! look!" exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed them slowly, and the latter, relieved by this incident, which put an end to an embarrassing conversation, retreated to the farther end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier released from duty.Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys's was a charming and noble service, and such it had formerly appeared to him; but the captain had gradually become blase'; the prospect of a speedy marriage cooled him more every day.Moreover, he was of a fickle disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in taste.Although of very noble birth, he had contracted in his official harness more than one habit of the common trooper.The tavern and its accompaniments pleased him.He was only at his ease amid gross language, military gallantries, facile beauties, and successes yet more easy.He had, nevertheless, received from his family some education and some politeness of manner; but he had been thrown on the world too young, he had been in garrison at too early an age, and every day the polish of a gentleman became more and more effaced by the rough friction of his gendarme's cross-belt.While still continuing to visit her from time to time, from a remnant of common respect, he felt doubly embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the first place, because, in consequence of having scattered his love in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her; in the next place, because, amid so many stiff, formal, and decent ladies, he was in constant fear lest his mouth, habituated to oaths, should suddenly take the bit in its teeth, and break out into the language of the tavern.The effect can be imagined!
Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions to elegance, toilet, and a fine appearance.Let the reader reconcile these things as best he can.I am simply the historian.
He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in silence against the carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking or not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed him.After all, the poor young girl was pouting against the dictates of her heart.
"Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom you saved a couple of months ago, while making the patrol with the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?"
"I believe so, fair cousin,." said the captain.
"Well," she resumed, "perchance 'tis that same gypsy girl who is dancing yonder, on the church square.Come and see if you recognize her, fair Cousin phoebus."
A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the care which she took to call him by name.Captain phoebus de Chateaupers (for it is he whom the reader has had before his eyes since the beginning of this chapter) slowly approached the balcony."Stay," said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly on phoebus's arm; "look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle.Is she your Bohemian?"
phoebus looked, and said,--
"Yes, I recognize her by her goat."
"Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!" said Amelotte, clasping her hands in admiration.
"Are his horns of real gold?" inquired B¨¦rang¨¨re.
Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloise interposed, "Is she not one of those gypsy girls who arrived last year by the Gibard gate?"
"Madame my mother," said Fleur-de-Lys gently, "that gate is now called the porte d'Enfer."
Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew how her mother's antiquated mode of speech shocked the captain.In fact, he began to sneer, and muttered between his teeth: "porte Gibard!porte Gibard!'Tis enough to make King Charles VI. pass by."
"Godmother!" exclaimed B¨¦rang¨¨re, whose eyes, incessantly in motion, had suddenly been raised to the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame, "who is that black man up yonder?"
All the young girls raised their eyes.A man was, in truth, leaning on the balustrade which surmounted the northern tower, looking on the Gr¨¨ve.He was a priest.His costume could be plainly discerned, and his face resting on both his hands.But he stirred no more than if he had been a statue. His eyes, intently fixed, gazed into the place.
It was something like the immobility of a bird of prey, who has just discovered a nest of sparrows, and is gazing at it.
"'Tis monsieur the archdeacon of Josas," said Fleur-de-Lys.
"You have good eyes if you can recognize him from here," said the Gaillefontaine.
"How he is staring at the little dancer!" went on Diane de Christeuil.
"Let the gypsy beware!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "for he loves not Egypt."
"'Tis a great shame for that man to look upon her thus," added Amelotte de Montmichel, "for she dances delightfully."
"Fair cousin phoebus," said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, "Since you know this little gypsy, make her a sign to come up here. It will amuse us."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed all the young girls, clapping their hands.
"Why! 'tis not worth while," replied phoebus."She has forgotten me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her name.Nevertheless, as you wish it, young ladies, I will make the trial."And leaning over the balustrade of the balcony, he began to shout, "Little one!"
The dancer was not beating her tambourine at the moment. She turned her head towards the point whence this call proceeded, her brilliant eyes rested on phoebus, and she stopped short.
"Little one!" repeated the captain; and he beckoned her to approach.
The young girl looked at him again, then she blushed as though a flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her tambourine under her arm, she made her way through the astonished spectators towards the door of the house where phoebus was calling her, with slow, tottering steps, and with the troubled look of a bird which is yielding to the fascination of a serpent.
A moment later, the tapestry porti¨¨re was raised, and the gypsy appeared on the threshold of the chamber, blushing, confused, breathless, her large eyes drooping, and not daring to advance another step.
B¨¦rang¨¨re clapped her hands.
Meanwhile, the dancer remained motionless upon the threshold.Her appearance had produced a singular effect upon these young girls.It is certain that a vague and indistinct desire to please the handsome officer animated them all, that his splendid uniform was the target of all their coquetries, and that from the moment he presented himself, there existed among them a secret, suppressed rivalry, which they hardly acknowledged even to themselves, but which broke forth, none the less, every instant, in their gestures and remarks. Nevertheless, as they were all very nearly equal in beauty, they contended with equal arms, and each could hope for the victory.--The arrival of the gypsy suddenly destroyed this equilibrium.Her beauty was so rare, that, at the moment when she appeared at the entrance of the apartment, it seemed as though she diffused a sort of light which was peculiar to herself.In that narrow chamber, surrounded by that sombre frame of hangings and woodwork, she was incomparably more beautiful and more radiant than on the public square.She was like a torch which has suddenly been brought from broad daylight into the dark.The noble damsels were dazzled by her in spite of themselves.Each one felt herself, in some sort, wounded in her beauty.Hence, their battle front (may we be allowed the expression,) was immediately altered, although they exchanged not a single word.But they understood each other perfectly.Women's instincts comprehend and respond to each other more quickly than the intelligences of men.An enemy had just arrived; all felt it--all rallied together.One drop of wine is sufficient to tinge a glass of water red; to diffuse a certain degree of ill temper throughout a whole assembly of pretty women, the arrival of a prettier woman suffices, especially when there is but one man present.
Hence the welcome accorded to the gypsy was marvellously glacial.They surveyed her from head to foot, then exchanged glances, and all was said; they understood each other.Meanwhile, the young girl was waiting to be spoken to, in such emotion that she dared not raise her eyelids.
The captain was the first to break the silence."Upon my word," said he, in his tone of intrepid fatuity, "here is a charming creature!What think you of her, fair cousin?"
This remark, which a more delicate admirer would have uttered in a lower tone, at least was not of a nature to dissipate the feminine jealousies which were on the alert before the gypsy.

¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER I.THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT. Page 2¡·
Fleur-de-Lys replied to the captain with a bland affectation of disdain;--"Not bad."
The others whispered.
At length, Madame Aloise, who was not the less jealous because she was so for her daughter, addressed the dancer,--"Approach, little one."
"Approach, little one!" repeated, with comical dignity, little B¨¦rang¨¨re, who would have reached about as high as her hips.
The gypsy advanced towards the noble dame.
"Fair child," said phoebus, with emphasis, taking several steps towards her, "I do not know whether I have the supreme honor of being recognized by you."
She interrupted him, with a smile and a look full of infinite sweetness,--
"Oh! yes," said she.
"She has a good memory," remarked Fleur-de-Lys.
"Come, now," resumed phoebus, "you escaped nimbly the other evening.Did I frighten you!"
"Oh! no," said the gypsy.
There was in the intonation of that "Oh! no," uttered after that "Oh! yes," an ineffable something which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.
"You left me in your stead, my beauty," pursued the captain, whose tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl out of the street, "a crabbed knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop's bellringer, I believe.I have been told that by birth he is the bastard of an archdeacon and a devil. He has a pleasant name: he is called ~Quatre-Temps~ (Ember Days), ~paques-Fleuries~ (palm Sunday), Mardi-Gras (Shrove Tuesday), I know not what!The name of some festival when the bells are pealed!So he took the liberty of carrying you off, as though you were made for beadles!'Tis too much. What the devil did that screech-owl want with you? Hey, tell me!"
"I do not know," she replied.
"The inconceivable impudence!A bellringer carrying off a wench, like a vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of gentlemen! that is a rare piece of assurance.However, he paid dearly for it.Master pierrat Torterue is the harshest groom that ever curried a knave; and I can tell you, if it will be agreeable to you, that your bellringer's hide got a thorough dressing at his hands."
"poor man!" said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the memory of the pillory.
The captain burst out laughing.
"Corne-de-boeuf! here's pity as well placed as a feather in a pig's tail!May I have as big a belly as a pope, if--"
He stopped short."pardon me, ladies; I believe that I was on the point of saying something foolish."
"Fie, sir" said la Gaillefontaine.
"He talks to that creature in her own tongue!" added Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her irritation increasing every moment.This irritation was not diminished when she beheld the captain, enchanted with the gypsy, and, most of all, with himself, execute a pirouette on his heel, repeating with coarse, na?ve, and soldierly gallantry,--
"A handsome wench, upon my soul!"
"Rather savagely dressed," said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to show her fine teeth.
This remark was a flash of light to the others.Not being able to impugn her beauty, they attacked her costume.
"That is true," said la Montmichel; "what makes you run about the streets thus, without guimpe or ruff?"
"That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble," added la Gaillefontaine.
"My dear," continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness, "You will get yourself taken up by the sumptuary police for your gilded girdle."
"Little one, little one;" resumed la Christeuil, with an implacable smile, "if you were to put respectable sleeves upon your arms they would get less sunburned."
It was, in truth, a spectacle worthy of a more intelligent spectator than phoebus, to see how these beautiful maidens, with their envenomed and angry tongues, wound, serpent-like, and glided and writhed around the street dancer.They were cruel and graceful; they searched and rummaged maliciously in her poor and silly toilet of spangles and tinsel.There was no end to their laughter, irony, and humiliation.Sarcasms rained down upon the gypsy, and haughty condescension and malevolent looks.One would have thought they were young Roman dames thrusting golden pins into the breast of a beautiful slave.One would have pronounced them elegant grayhounds, circling, with inflated nostrils, round a poor woodland fawn, whom the glance of their master forbade them to devour.
After all, what was a miserable dancer on the public squares in the presence of these high-born maidens?They seemed to take no heed of her presence, and talked of her aloud, to her face, as of something unclean, abject, and yet, at the same time, passably pretty.
The gypsy was not insensible to these pin-pricks.From time to time a flush of shame, a flash of anger inflamed her eyes or her cheeks; with disdain she made that little grimace with which the reader is already familiar, but she remained motionless; she fixed on phoebus a sad, sweet, resigned look. There was also happiness and tenderness in that gaze.One would have said that she endured for fear of being expelled.
phoebus laughed, and took the gypsy's part with a mixture of impertinence and pity.
"Let them talk, little one!" he repeated, jingling his golden spurs."No doubt your toilet is a little extravagant and wild, but what difference does that make with such a charming damsel as yourself?"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the blonde Gaillefontaine, drawing up her swan-like throat, with a bitter smile."I see that messieurs the archers of the king's police easily take fire at the handsome eyes of gypsies!"
"Why not?" said phoebus.
At this reply uttered carelessly by the captain, like a stray stone, whose fall one does not even watch, Colombe began to laugh, as well as Diane, Amelotte, and Fleur-de-Lys, into whose eyes at the same time a tear started.
The gypsy, who had dropped her eyes on the floor at the words of Colombe de Gaillefontaine, raised them beaming with joy and pride and fixed them once more on phoebus.She was very beautiful at that moment.
The old dame, who was watching this scene, felt offended, without understanding why.
"Holy Virgin!" she suddenly exclaimed, "what is it moving about my legs?Ah! the villanous beast!"
It was the goat, who had just arrived, in search of his mistress, and who, in dashing towards the latter, had begun by entangling his horns in the pile of stuffs which the noble dame's garments heaped up on her feet when she was seated.
This created a diversion.The gypsy disentangled his horns without uttering a word.
"Oh! here's the little goat with golden hoofs!" exclaimed B¨¦rang¨¨re, dancing with joy.
The gypsy crouched down on her knees and leaned her cheek against the fondling head of the goat.One would have said that she was asking pardon for having quitted it thus.
Meanwhile, Diane had bent down to Colombe's ear.
"Ah! good heavens! why did not I think of that sooner? 'Tis the gypsy with the goat.They say she is a sorceress, and that her goat executes very miraculous tricks."
"Well!" said Colombe, "the goat must now amuse us in its turn, and perform a miracle for us."
Diane and Colombe eagerly addressed the gypsy.
"Little one, make your goat perform a miracle."
"I do not know what you mean," replied the dancer.
"A miracle, a piece of magic, a bit of sorcery, in short."
"I do not understand."And she fell to caressing the pretty animal, repeating, "Djali!Djali!"
At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little bag of embroidered leather suspended from the neck of the goat,-- "What is that?" she asked of the gypsy.
The gypsy raised her large eyes upon her and replied gravely,-- "That is my secret."
"I should really like to know what your secret is," thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good dame had risen angrily,--" Come now, gypsy, if neither you nor your goat can dance for us, what are you doing here?"
The gypsy walked slowly towards the door, without making any reply.But the nearer she approached it, the more her pace slackened.An irresistible magnet seemed to hold her.Suddenly she turned her eyes, wet with tears, towards phoebus, and halted.
"True God!" exclaimed the captain, "that's not the way to depart.Come back and dance something for us.By the way, my sweet love, what is your name?"
"La Esmeralda," said the dancer, never taking her eyes from him.
At this strange name, a burst of wild laughter broke from the young girls.
"Here's a terrible name for a young lady," said Diane.
"You see well enough," retorted Amelotte, "that she is an enchantress."
"My dear," exclaimed Dame Aloise solemnly, "your parents did not commit the sin of giving you that name at the baptismal font."
In the meantime, several minutes previously, B¨¦rang¨¨re had coaxed the goat into a corner of the room with a marchpane cake, without any one having noticed her.In an instant they had become good friends.The curious child had detached the bag from the goat's neck, had opened it, and had emptied out its contents on the rush matting; it was an alphabet, each letter of which was separately inscribed on a tiny block of boxwood.Hardly had these playthings been spread out on the matting, when the child, with surprise, beheld the goat (one of whose "miracles" this was no doubt), draw out certain letters with its golden hoof, and arrange them, with gentle pushes, in a certain order.In a moment they constituted a word, which the goat seemed to have been trained to write, so little hesitation did it show in forming it, and B¨¦rang¨¨re suddenly exclaimed, clasping her hands in admiration,--
"Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the goat has just done!"
Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled.The letters arranged upon the floor formed this word,--
pHOEBUS.
"Was it the goat who wrote that?" she inquired in a changed voice.
"Yes, godmother," replied B¨¦rang¨ºre.
It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how to write.
"This is the secret!" thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, at the child's exclamation, all had hastened up, the mother, the young girls, the gypsy, and the officer.
The gypsy beheld the piece of folly which the goat had committed.She turned red, then pale, and began to tremble like a culprit before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of satisfaction and amazement.
"phoebus!" whispered the young girls, stupefied: "'tis the captain's name!"
"You have a marvellous memory!" said Fleur-de-Lys, to the petrified gypsy.Then, bursting into sobs: "Oh!" she stammered mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful hands, "she is a magician!"And she heard another and a still more bitter voice at the bottom of her heart, saying,-- "She is a rival!"
She fell fainting.
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried the terrified mother. "Begone, you gypsy of hell!"
In a twinkling, La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters, made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door, while Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.
Captain phoebus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER I.THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT. Page 1¡·
Many weeks had elapsed.
The first of March had arrived.The sun, which Dubartas, that classic ancestor of periphrase, had not yet dubbed the "Grand-duke of Candles," was none the less radiant and joyous on that account.It was one of those spring days which possesses so much sweetness and beauty, that all paris turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates them as though they were Sundays.In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there is a certain hour above all others, when the fa?ade of Notre-Dame should be admired. It is the moment when the sun, already declining towards the west, looks the cathedral almost full in the face.Its rays, growing more and more horizontal, withdraw slowly from the pavement of the square, and mount up the perpendicular fa?ade, whose thousand bosses in high relief they cause to start out from the shadows, while the great central rose window flames like the eye of a cyclops, inflamed with the reflections of the forge.
This was the hour.
Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting sun, on the stone balcony built above the porch of a rich Gothic house, which formed the angle of the square and the Rue du parvis, several young girls were laughing and chatting with every sort of grace and mirth.From the length of the veil which fell from their pointed coif, twined with pearls, to their heels, from the fineness of the embroidered chemisette which covered their shoulders and allowed a glimpse, according to the pleasing custom of the time, of the swell of their fair virgin bosoms, from the opulence of their under-petticoats still more precious than their overdress (marvellous refinement), from the gauze, the silk, the velvet, with which all this was composed, and, above all, from the whiteness of their hands, which certified to their leisure and idleness, it was easy to divine they were noble and wealthy heiresses.They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de Champchevrier maiden; all damsels of good birth, assembled at that moment at the house of the dame widow de Gondelaurier, on account of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were to come to paris in the month of April, there to choose maids of honor for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be received in picardy from the hands of the Flemings.Now, all the squires for twenty leagues around were intriguing for this favor for their daughters, and a goodly number of the latter had been already brought or sent to paris.These four maidens had been confided to the discreet and venerable charge of Madame Aloise de Gondelaurier, widow of a former commander of the king's cross-bowmen, who had retired with her only daughter to her house in the place du parvis, Notre- Dame, in paris.
The balcony on which these young girls stood opened from a chamber richly tapestried in fawn-colored Flanders leather, stamped with golden foliage.The beams, which cut the ceiling in parallel lines, diverted the eye with a thousand eccentric painted and gilded carvings.Splendid enamels gleamed here and there on carved chests; a boar's head in faience crowned a magnificent dresser, whose two shelves announced that the mistress of the house was the wife or widow of a knight banneret.At the end of the room, by the side of a lofty chimney blazoned with arms from top to bottom, in a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier, whose five and fifty years were written upon her garments no less distinctly than upon her face.
Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although partaking somewhat of vanity and bravado--one of those handsome fellows whom all women agree to admire, although grave men learned in physiognomy shrug their shoulders at them.This young man wore the garb of a captain of the king's unattached archers, which bears far too much resemblance to the costume of Jupiter, which the reader has already been enabled to admire in the first book of this history, for us to inflict upon him a second description.
The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the balcony, some on square cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden corners, others on stools of oak carved in flowers and figures.Each of them held on her knee a section of a great needlework tapestry, on which they were working in company, while one end of it lay upon the rush mat which covered the floor.
They were chatting together in that whispering tone and with the half-stifled laughs peculiar to an assembly of young girls in whose midst there is a young man.The young man whose presence served to set in play all these feminine self- conceits, appeared to pay very little heed to the matter, and, while these pretty damsels were vying with one another to attract his attention, he seemed to be chiefly absorbed in polishing the buckle of his sword belt with his doeskin glove. From time to time, the old lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as well as he was able, with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness.
From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloise, from the glances which she threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was here a question of some betrothal concluded, some marriage near at hand no doubt, between the young man and Fleur-de-Lys.From the embarrassed coldness of the officer, it was easy to see that on his side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter.His whole air was expressive of constraint and weariness, which our lieutenants of the garrison would to-day translate admirably as, "What a beastly bore!"
The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter, like any other silly mother, did not perceive the officer's lack of enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call his attention to the infinite grace with which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle or wound her skein.
"Come, little cousin," she said to him, plucking him by the sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, "Look at her, do! see her stoop."
"Yes, truly," replied the young man, and fell back into his glacial and absent-minded silence.
A moment later, he was obliged to bend down again, and Dame Aloise said to him,--
"Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than that of your betrothed?Can one be more white and blonde? are not her hands perfect? and that neck--does it not assume all the curves of the swan in ravishing fashion?How I envy you at times! and how happy you are to be a man, naughty libertine that you are!Is not my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately in love with her?"
"Of course," he replied, still thinking of something else.
"But do say something," said Madame Aloise, suddenly giving his shoulder a push; "you have grown very timid."
We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain's virtue nor his defect.But he made an effort to do what was demanded of him.
"Fair cousin," he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, "what is the subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?' "Fair cousin," responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, "I have already told you three times.'Tis the grotto of Neptune."
It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her mother through the captain's cold and absent-minded manner.He felt the necessity of making some conversation.
"And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?"
"For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs," answered Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.
The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.
"Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing out his cheeks to their full extent and blowing a trumpet?"
"'Tis Triton," she replied.
There was a rather pettish intonation in Fleur-de-Lys's-- laconic words.The young man understood that it was indispensable that he should whisper something in her ear, a commonplace, a gallant compliment, no matter what.Accordingly he bent down, but he could find nothing in his imagination more tender and personal than this,--
"Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with armorial designs, like our grandmothers of the time of Charles VII.?Tell her, fair cousin, that 'tis no longer the fashion, and that the hinge (gond) and the laurel (laurier) embroidered on her robe give her the air of a walking mantlepiece. In truth, people no longer sit thus on their banners, I assure you."
Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach, "Is that all of which you can assure me?" she said, in a low voice.
In the meantime, Dame Aloise, delighted to see them thus bending towards each other and whispering, said as she toyed with the clasps of her prayer-book,--
"Touching picture of love!"
The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the subject of the tapestry,--"'Tis, in sooth, a charming work!" he exclaimed.
Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde, with a white skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask, ventured a timid remark which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys, in the hope that the handsome captain would reply to it, "My dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the H?tel de la Roche-Guyon?"
"Is not that the hotel in which is enclosed the garden of the Ling¨¨re du Louvre?" asked Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for she had handsome teeth, and consequently laughed on every occasion.
"And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient wall of paris," added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty fresh and curly-headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing just as the other laughed, without knowing why.
"My dear Colombe," interpolated Dame Aloise, "do you not mean the hotel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the reign of King Charles VI.? there are indeed many superb high warp tapestries there."
"Charles VI.!Charles VI.!" muttered the young captain, twirling his moustache."Good heavens! what old things the good dame does remember!"
Madame de Gondelaurier continued, "Fine tapestries, in truth.A work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled."
At that moment B¨¦rang¨¨re de Champchevrier, a slender little maid of seven years, who was peering into the square through the trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, "Oh! look, fair Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is dancing on the pavement and playing the tambourine in the midst of the loutish bourgeois!"
The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was, in fact, audible. "Some gypsy from Bohemia," said Fleur-de-Lys, turning carelessly toward the square.
"Look! look!" exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed them slowly, and the latter, relieved by this incident, which put an end to an embarrassing conversation, retreated to the farther end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier released from duty.Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys's was a charming and noble service, and such it had formerly appeared to him; but the captain had gradually become blase'; the prospect of a speedy marriage cooled him more every day.Moreover, he was of a fickle disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in taste.Although of very noble birth, he had contracted in his official harness more than one habit of the common trooper.The tavern and its accompaniments pleased him.He was only at his ease amid gross language, military gallantries, facile beauties, and successes yet more easy.He had, nevertheless, received from his family some education and some politeness of manner; but he had been thrown on the world too young, he had been in garrison at too early an age, and every day the polish of a gentleman became more and more effaced by the rough friction of his gendarme's cross-belt.While still continuing to visit her from time to time, from a remnant of common respect, he felt doubly embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the first place, because, in consequence of having scattered his love in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her; in the next place, because, amid so many stiff, formal, and decent ladies, he was in constant fear lest his mouth, habituated to oaths, should suddenly take the bit in its teeth, and break out into the language of the tavern.The effect can be imagined!
Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions to elegance, toilet, and a fine appearance.Let the reader reconcile these things as best he can.I am simply the historian.
He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in silence against the carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking or not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed him.After all, the poor young girl was pouting against the dictates of her heart.
"Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom you saved a couple of months ago, while making the patrol with the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?"
"I believe so, fair cousin,." said the captain.
"Well," she resumed, "perchance 'tis that same gypsy girl who is dancing yonder, on the church square.Come and see if you recognize her, fair Cousin phoebus."
A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the care which she took to call him by name.Captain phoebus de Chateaupers (for it is he whom the reader has had before his eyes since the beginning of this chapter) slowly approached the balcony."Stay," said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly on phoebus's arm; "look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle.Is she your Bohemian?"
phoebus looked, and said,--
"Yes, I recognize her by her goat."
"Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!" said Amelotte, clasping her hands in admiration.
"Are his horns of real gold?" inquired B¨¦rang¨¨re.
Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloise interposed, "Is she not one of those gypsy girls who arrived last year by the Gibard gate?"
"Madame my mother," said Fleur-de-Lys gently, "that gate is now called the porte d'Enfer."
Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew how her mother's antiquated mode of speech shocked the captain.In fact, he began to sneer, and muttered between his teeth: "porte Gibard!porte Gibard!'Tis enough to make King Charles VI. pass by."
"Godmother!" exclaimed B¨¦rang¨¨re, whose eyes, incessantly in motion, had suddenly been raised to the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame, "who is that black man up yonder?"
All the young girls raised their eyes.A man was, in truth, leaning on the balustrade which surmounted the northern tower, looking on the Gr¨¨ve.He was a priest.His costume could be plainly discerned, and his face resting on both his hands.But he stirred no more than if he had been a statue. His eyes, intently fixed, gazed into the place.
It was something like the immobility of a bird of prey, who has just discovered a nest of sparrows, and is gazing at it.
"'Tis monsieur the archdeacon of Josas," said Fleur-de-Lys.
"You have good eyes if you can recognize him from here," said the Gaillefontaine.
"How he is staring at the little dancer!" went on Diane de Christeuil.
"Let the gypsy beware!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "for he loves not Egypt."
"'Tis a great shame for that man to look upon her thus," added Amelotte de Montmichel, "for she dances delightfully."
"Fair cousin phoebus," said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, "Since you know this little gypsy, make her a sign to come up here. It will amuse us."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed all the young girls, clapping their hands.
"Why! 'tis not worth while," replied phoebus."She has forgotten me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her name.Nevertheless, as you wish it, young ladies, I will make the trial."And leaning over the balustrade of the balcony, he began to shout, "Little one!"
The dancer was not beating her tambourine at the moment. She turned her head towards the point whence this call proceeded, her brilliant eyes rested on phoebus, and she stopped short.
"Little one!" repeated the captain; and he beckoned her to approach.
The young girl looked at him again, then she blushed as though a flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her tambourine under her arm, she made her way through the astonished spectators towards the door of the house where phoebus was calling her, with slow, tottering steps, and with the troubled look of a bird which is yielding to the fascination of a serpent.
A moment later, the tapestry porti¨¨re was raised, and the gypsy appeared on the threshold of the chamber, blushing, confused, breathless, her large eyes drooping, and not daring to advance another step.
B¨¦rang¨¨re clapped her hands.
Meanwhile, the dancer remained motionless upon the threshold.Her appearance had produced a singular effect upon these young girls.It is certain that a vague and indistinct desire to please the handsome officer animated them all, that his splendid uniform was the target of all their coquetries, and that from the moment he presented himself, there existed among them a secret, suppressed rivalry, which they hardly acknowledged even to themselves, but which broke forth, none the less, every instant, in their gestures and remarks. Nevertheless, as they were all very nearly equal in beauty, they contended with equal arms, and each could hope for the victory.--The arrival of the gypsy suddenly destroyed this equilibrium.Her beauty was so rare, that, at the moment when she appeared at the entrance of the apartment, it seemed as though she diffused a sort of light which was peculiar to herself.In that narrow chamber, surrounded by that sombre frame of hangings and woodwork, she was incomparably more beautiful and more radiant than on the public square.She was like a torch which has suddenly been brought from broad daylight into the dark.The noble damsels were dazzled by her in spite of themselves.Each one felt herself, in some sort, wounded in her beauty.Hence, their battle front (may we be allowed the expression,) was immediately altered, although they exchanged not a single word.But they understood each other perfectly.Women's instincts comprehend and respond to each other more quickly than the intelligences of men.An enemy had just arrived; all felt it--all rallied together.One drop of wine is sufficient to tinge a glass of water red; to diffuse a certain degree of ill temper throughout a whole assembly of pretty women, the arrival of a prettier woman suffices, especially when there is but one man present.
Hence the welcome accorded to the gypsy was marvellously glacial.They surveyed her from head to foot, then exchanged glances, and all was said; they understood each other.Meanwhile, the young girl was waiting to be spoken to, in such emotion that she dared not raise her eyelids.
The captain was the first to break the silence."Upon my word," said he, in his tone of intrepid fatuity, "here is a charming creature!What think you of her, fair cousin?"
This remark, which a more delicate admirer would have uttered in a lower tone, at least was not of a nature to dissipate the feminine jealousies which were on the alert before the gypsy.

¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER I.THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT. Page 2¡·
Fleur-de-Lys replied to the captain with a bland affectation of disdain;--"Not bad."
The others whispered.
At length, Madame Aloise, who was not the less jealous because she was so for her daughter, addressed the dancer,--"Approach, little one."
"Approach, little one!" repeated, with comical dignity, little B¨¦rang¨¨re, who would have reached about as high as her hips.
The gypsy advanced towards the noble dame.
"Fair child," said phoebus, with emphasis, taking several steps towards her, "I do not know whether I have the supreme honor of being recognized by you."
She interrupted him, with a smile and a look full of infinite sweetness,--
"Oh! yes," said she.
"She has a good memory," remarked Fleur-de-Lys.
"Come, now," resumed phoebus, "you escaped nimbly the other evening.Did I frighten you!"
"Oh! no," said the gypsy.
There was in the intonation of that "Oh! no," uttered after that "Oh! yes," an ineffable something which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.
"You left me in your stead, my beauty," pursued the captain, whose tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl out of the street, "a crabbed knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop's bellringer, I believe.I have been told that by birth he is the bastard of an archdeacon and a devil. He has a pleasant name: he is called ~Quatre-Temps~ (Ember Days), ~paques-Fleuries~ (palm Sunday), Mardi-Gras (Shrove Tuesday), I know not what!The name of some festival when the bells are pealed!So he took the liberty of carrying you off, as though you were made for beadles!'Tis too much. What the devil did that screech-owl want with you? Hey, tell me!"
"I do not know," she replied.
"The inconceivable impudence!A bellringer carrying off a wench, like a vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of gentlemen! that is a rare piece of assurance.However, he paid dearly for it.Master pierrat Torterue is the harshest groom that ever curried a knave; and I can tell you, if it will be agreeable to you, that your bellringer's hide got a thorough dressing at his hands."
"poor man!" said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the memory of the pillory.
The captain burst out laughing.
"Corne-de-boeuf! here's pity as well placed as a feather in a pig's tail!May I have as big a belly as a pope, if--"
He stopped short."pardon me, ladies; I believe that I was on the point of saying something foolish."
"Fie, sir" said la Gaillefontaine.
"He talks to that creature in her own tongue!" added Fleur-de-Lys, in a low tone, her irritation increasing every moment.This irritation was not diminished when she beheld the captain, enchanted with the gypsy, and, most of all, with himself, execute a pirouette on his heel, repeating with coarse, na?ve, and soldierly gallantry,--
"A handsome wench, upon my soul!"
"Rather savagely dressed," said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to show her fine teeth.
This remark was a flash of light to the others.Not being able to impugn her beauty, they attacked her costume.
"That is true," said la Montmichel; "what makes you run about the streets thus, without guimpe or ruff?"
"That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble," added la Gaillefontaine.
"My dear," continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness, "You will get yourself taken up by the sumptuary police for your gilded girdle."
"Little one, little one;" resumed la Christeuil, with an implacable smile, "if you were to put respectable sleeves upon your arms they would get less sunburned."
It was, in truth, a spectacle worthy of a more intelligent spectator than phoebus, to see how these beautiful maidens, with their envenomed and angry tongues, wound, serpent-like, and glided and writhed around the street dancer.They were cruel and graceful; they searched and rummaged maliciously in her poor and silly toilet of spangles and tinsel.There was no end to their laughter, irony, and humiliation.Sarcasms rained down upon the gypsy, and haughty condescension and malevolent looks.One would have thought they were young Roman dames thrusting golden pins into the breast of a beautiful slave.One would have pronounced them elegant grayhounds, circling, with inflated nostrils, round a poor woodland fawn, whom the glance of their master forbade them to devour.
After all, what was a miserable dancer on the public squares in the presence of these high-born maidens?They seemed to take no heed of her presence, and talked of her aloud, to her face, as of something unclean, abject, and yet, at the same time, passably pretty.
The gypsy was not insensible to these pin-pricks.From time to time a flush of shame, a flash of anger inflamed her eyes or her cheeks; with disdain she made that little grimace with which the reader is already familiar, but she remained motionless; she fixed on phoebus a sad, sweet, resigned look. There was also happiness and tenderness in that gaze.One would have said that she endured for fear of being expelled.
phoebus laughed, and took the gypsy's part with a mixture of impertinence and pity.
"Let them talk, little one!" he repeated, jingling his golden spurs."No doubt your toilet is a little extravagant and wild, but what difference does that make with such a charming damsel as yourself?"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the blonde Gaillefontaine, drawing up her swan-like throat, with a bitter smile."I see that messieurs the archers of the king's police easily take fire at the handsome eyes of gypsies!"
"Why not?" said phoebus.
At this reply uttered carelessly by the captain, like a stray stone, whose fall one does not even watch, Colombe began to laugh, as well as Diane, Amelotte, and Fleur-de-Lys, into whose eyes at the same time a tear started.
The gypsy, who had dropped her eyes on the floor at the words of Colombe de Gaillefontaine, raised them beaming with joy and pride and fixed them once more on phoebus.She was very beautiful at that moment.
The old dame, who was watching this scene, felt offended, without understanding why.
"Holy Virgin!" she suddenly exclaimed, "what is it moving about my legs?Ah! the villanous beast!"
It was the goat, who had just arrived, in search of his mistress, and who, in dashing towards the latter, had begun by entangling his horns in the pile of stuffs which the noble dame's garments heaped up on her feet when she was seated.
This created a diversion.The gypsy disentangled his horns without uttering a word.
"Oh! here's the little goat with golden hoofs!" exclaimed B¨¦rang¨¨re, dancing with joy.
The gypsy crouched down on her knees and leaned her cheek against the fondling head of the goat.One would have said that she was asking pardon for having quitted it thus.
Meanwhile, Diane had bent down to Colombe's ear.
"Ah! good heavens! why did not I think of that sooner? 'Tis the gypsy with the goat.They say she is a sorceress, and that her goat executes very miraculous tricks."
"Well!" said Colombe, "the goat must now amuse us in its turn, and perform a miracle for us."
Diane and Colombe eagerly addressed the gypsy.
"Little one, make your goat perform a miracle."
"I do not know what you mean," replied the dancer.
"A miracle, a piece of magic, a bit of sorcery, in short."
"I do not understand."And she fell to caressing the pretty animal, repeating, "Djali!Djali!"
At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little bag of embroidered leather suspended from the neck of the goat,-- "What is that?" she asked of the gypsy.
The gypsy raised her large eyes upon her and replied gravely,-- "That is my secret."
"I should really like to know what your secret is," thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good dame had risen angrily,--" Come now, gypsy, if neither you nor your goat can dance for us, what are you doing here?"
The gypsy walked slowly towards the door, without making any reply.But the nearer she approached it, the more her pace slackened.An irresistible magnet seemed to hold her.Suddenly she turned her eyes, wet with tears, towards phoebus, and halted.
"True God!" exclaimed the captain, "that's not the way to depart.Come back and dance something for us.By the way, my sweet love, what is your name?"
"La Esmeralda," said the dancer, never taking her eyes from him.
At this strange name, a burst of wild laughter broke from the young girls.
"Here's a terrible name for a young lady," said Diane.
"You see well enough," retorted Amelotte, "that she is an enchantress."
"My dear," exclaimed Dame Aloise solemnly, "your parents did not commit the sin of giving you that name at the baptismal font."
In the meantime, several minutes previously, B¨¦rang¨¨re had coaxed the goat into a corner of the room with a marchpane cake, without any one having noticed her.In an instant they had become good friends.The curious child had detached the bag from the goat's neck, had opened it, and had emptied out its contents on the rush matting; it was an alphabet, each letter of which was separately inscribed on a tiny block of boxwood.Hardly had these playthings been spread out on the matting, when the child, with surprise, beheld the goat (one of whose "miracles" this was no doubt), draw out certain letters with its golden hoof, and arrange them, with gentle pushes, in a certain order.In a moment they constituted a word, which the goat seemed to have been trained to write, so little hesitation did it show in forming it, and B¨¦rang¨¨re suddenly exclaimed, clasping her hands in admiration,--
"Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the goat has just done!"
Fleur-de-Lys ran up and trembled.The letters arranged upon the floor formed this word,--
pHOEBUS.
"Was it the goat who wrote that?" she inquired in a changed voice.
"Yes, godmother," replied B¨¦rang¨ºre.
It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how to write.
"This is the secret!" thought Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, at the child's exclamation, all had hastened up, the mother, the young girls, the gypsy, and the officer.
The gypsy beheld the piece of folly which the goat had committed.She turned red, then pale, and began to tremble like a culprit before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of satisfaction and amazement.
"phoebus!" whispered the young girls, stupefied: "'tis the captain's name!"
"You have a marvellous memory!" said Fleur-de-Lys, to the petrified gypsy.Then, bursting into sobs: "Oh!" she stammered mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful hands, "she is a magician!"And she heard another and a still more bitter voice at the bottom of her heart, saying,-- "She is a rival!"
She fell fainting.
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried the terrified mother. "Begone, you gypsy of hell!"
In a twinkling, La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters, made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door, while Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.
Captain phoebus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER II.A PRIEST AND A PHILOSOPHER ARE TWO DIFFERENT THINGS.¡·
The priest whom the young girls had observed at the top of the North tower, leaning over the place and so attentive to the dance of the gypsy, was, in fact, Archdeacon Claude Frollo.
Our readers have not forgotten the mysterious cell which the archdeacon had reserved for himself in that tower.(I do not know, by the way be it said, whether it be not the same, the interior of which can be seen to-day through a little square window, opening to the east at the height of a man above the platform from which the towers spring; a bare and dilapidated den, whose badly plastered walls are ornamented here and there, at the present day, with some wretched yellow engravings representing the fa?ades of cathedrals.I presume that this hole is jointly inhabited by bats and spiders, and that, consequently, it wages a double war of extermination on the flies).
Every day, an hour before sunset, the archdeacon ascended the staircase to the tower, and shut himself up in this cell, where he sometimes passed whole nights.That day, at the moment when, standing before the low door of his retreat, he was fitting into the lock the complicated little key which he always carried about him in the purse suspended to his side, a sound of tambourine and castanets had reached his ear. These sounds came from the place du parvis.The cell, as we have already said, had only one window opening upon the rear of the church.Claude Frollo had hastily withdrawn the key, and an instant later, he was on the top of the tower, in the gloomy and pensive attitude in which the maidens had seen him.
There he stood, grave, motionless, absorbed in one look and one thought.All paris lay at his feet, with the thousand spires of its edifices and its circular horizon of gentle hills--with its river winding under its bridges, and its people moving to and fro through its streets,--with the clouds of its smoke,--with the mountainous chain of its roofs which presses Notre-Dame in its doubled folds; but out .of all the city, the archdeacon gazed at one corner only of the pavement, the place du parvis; in all that throng at but one figure,--the gypsy.
It would have been difficult to say what was the nature of this look, and whence proceeded the flame that flashed from it.It was a fixed gaze, which was, nevertheless, full of trouble and tumult.And, from the profound immobility of his whole body, barely agitated at intervals by an involuntary shiver, as a tree is moved by the wind; from the stiffness of his elbows, more marble than the balustrade on which they leaned; or the sight of the petrified smile which contracted his face,-- one would have said that nothing living was left about Claude Frollo except his eyes.
The gypsy was dancing; she was twirling her tambourine on the tip of her finger, and tossing it into the air as she danced proven?al sarabands; agile, light, joyous, and unconscious of the formidable gaze which descended perpendicularly upon her head.
The crowd was swarming around her; from time to time, a man accoutred in red and yellow made them form into a circle, and then returned, seated himself on a chair a few paces from the dancer, and took the goat's head on his knees.This man seemed to be the gypsy's companion.Claude Frollo could not distinguish his features from his elevated post.
From the moment when the archdeacon caught sight of this stranger, his attention seemed divided between him and the dancer, and his face became more and more gloomy.All at once he rose upright, and a quiver ran through his whole body: "Who is that man?" he muttered between his teeth: "I have always seen her alone before!"
Then he plunged down beneath the tortuous vault of the spiral staircase, and once more descended.As he passed the door of the bell chamber, which was ajar, be saw something which struck him; he beheld Quasimodo, who, leaning through an opening of one of those slate penthouses which resemble enormous blinds, appeared also to be gazing at the place.He was engaged in so profound a contemplation, that he did not notice the passage of his adopted father.His savage eye had a singular expression; it was a charmed, tender look."This is strange!" murmured Claude."Is it the gypsy at whom he is thus gazing?"He continued his descent.At the end of a few minutes, the anxious archdeacon entered upon the place from the door at the base of the tower.
"What has become of the gypsy girl?" he said, mingling with the group of spectators which the sound of the tambourine had collected.
"I know not," replied one of his neighbors, "I think that she has gone to make some of her fandangoes in the house opposite, whither they have called her."
In the place of the gypsy, on the carpet, whose arabesques had seemed to vanish but a moment previously by the capricious figures of her dance, the archdeacon no longer beheld any one but the red and yellow man, who, in order to earn a few testers in his turn, was walking round the circle, with his elbows on his hips, his head thrown back, his face red, his neck outstretched, with a chair between his teeth.To the chair he had fastened a cat, which a neighbor had lent, and which was spitting in great affright.
"Notre-Dame!" exclaimed the archdeacon, at the moment when the juggler, perspiring heavily, passed in front of him with his pyramid of chair and his cat, "What is Master pierre Gringoire doing here?"
The harsh voice of the archdeacon threw the poor fellow into such a commotion that he lost his equilibrium, together with his whole edifice, and the chair and the cat tumbled pell-mell upon the heads of the spectators, in the midst of inextinguishable hootings.
It is probable that Master pierre Gringoire (for it was indeed he) would have had a sorry account to settle with the neighbor who owned the cat, and all the bruised and scratched faces which surrounded him, if he had not hastened to profit by the tumult to take refuge in the church, whither Claude Frollo had made him a sign to follow him.
The cathedral was already dark and deserted; the side-aisles were full of shadows, and the lamps of the chapels began to shine out like stars, so black had the vaulted ceiling become. Only the great rose window of the fa?ade, whose thousand colors were steeped in a ray of horizontal sunlight, glittered in the gloom like a mass of diamonds, and threw its dazzling reflection to the other end of the nave.
When they had advanced a few paces, Dom Claude placed his back against a pillar, and gazed intently at Gringoire. The gaze was not the one which Gringoire feared, ashamed as he was of having been caught by a grave and learned person in the costume of a buffoon.There was nothing mocking or ironical in the priest's glance, it was serious, tranquil, piercing.The archdeacon was the first to break the silence.
"Come now, Master pierre.You are to explain many things to me.And first of all, how comes it that you have not been seen for two months, and that now one finds you in the public squares, in a fine equipment in truth!Motley red and yellow, like a Caudebec apple?"
"Messire," said Gringoire, piteously, "it is, in fact, an amazing accoutrement.You see me no more comfortable in it than a cat coiffed with a calabash.'Tis very ill done, I am conscious, to expose messieurs the sergeants of the watch to the liability of cudgelling beneath this cassock the humerus of a pythagorean philosopher.But what would you have, my reverend master? 'tis the fault of my ancient jerkin, which abandoned me in cowardly wise, at the beginning of the winter, under the pretext that it was falling into tatters, and that it required repose in the basket of a rag-picker. What is one to do?Civilization has not yet arrived at the point where one can go stark naked, as ancient Diogenes wished.Add that a very cold wind was blowing, and 'tis not in the month of January that one can successfully attempt to make humanity take this new step.This garment presented itself, I took it, and I left my ancient black smock, which, for a hermetic like myself, was far from being hermetically closed.Behold me then, in the garments of a stage-player, like Saint Genest.What would you have? 'tis an eclipse. Apollo himself tended the flocks of Admetus."
"'Tis a fine profession that you are engaged in!" replied the archdeacon.
"I agree, my master, that 'tis better to philosophize and poetize, to blow the flame in the furnace, or to receive it from carry cats on a shield.So, when you addressed me, I was as foolish as an ass before a turnspit.But what would you have, messire?One must eat every day, and the finest Alexandrine verses are not worth a bit of Brie cheese.Now, I made for Madame Marguerite of Flanders, that famous epithalamium, as you know, and the city will not pay me, under the pretext that it was not excellent; as though one could give a tragedy of Sophocles for four crowns! Hence, I was on the point of dying with hunger.Happily, I found that I was rather strong in the jaw; so I said to this jaw,--perform some feats of strength and of equilibrium: nourish thyself.~Ale te ipsam~.A pack of beggars who have become my good friends, have taught me twenty sorts of herculean feats, and now I give to my teeth every evening the bread which they have earned during the day by the sweat of my brow.After all, concede, I grant that it is a sad employment for my intellectual faculties, and that man is not made to pass his life in beating the tambourine and biting chairs.But, reverend master, it is not sufficient to pass one's life, one must earn the means for life.''
Dom Claude listened in silence.All at once his deep-set eye assumed so sagacious and penetrating an expression, that Gringoire felt himself, so to speak, searched to the bottom of the soul by that glance.
"Very good, Master pierre; but how comes it that you are now in company with that gypsy dancer?"
"In faith!" said Gringoire, "'tis because she is my wife and I am her husband."
The priest's gloomy eyes flashed into flame.
"Have you done that, you wretch!" he cried, seizing Gringoire's arm with fury; "have you been so abandoned by God as to raise your hand against that girl?"
"On my chance of paradise, monseigneur," replied Gringoire, trembling in every limb, "I swear to you that I have never touched her, if that is what disturbs you."
"Then why do you talk of husband and wife?" said the priest. Gringoire made haste to relate to him as succinctly as possible, all that the reader already knows, his adventure in the Court of Miracles and the broken-crock marriage.It appeared, moreover, that this marriage had led to no results whatever, and that each evening the gypsy girl cheated him of his nuptial right as on the first day."'Tis a mortification," he said in conclusion, "but that is because I have had the misfortune to wed a virgin."
"What do you mean?" demanded the archdeacon, who had been gradually appeased by this recital.
"'Tis very difficult to explain," replied the poet."It is a superstition.My wife is, according to what an old thief, who is called among us the Duke of Egypt, has told me, a foundling or a lost child, which is the same thing.She wears on her neck an amulet which, it is affirmed, will cause her to meet her parents some day, but which will lose its virtue if the young girl loses hers.Hence it follows that both of us remain very virtuous."
"So," resumed Claude, whose brow cleared more and more, "you believe, Master pierre, that this creature has not been approached by any man?"
"What would you have a man do, Dom Claude, as against a superstition?She has got that in her head.I assuredly esteem as a rarity this nunlike prudery which is preserved untamed amid those Bohemian girls who are so easily brought into subjection.But she has three things to protect her: the Duke of Egypt, who has taken her under his safeguard, reckoning, perchance, on selling her to some gay abb¨¦; all his tribe, who hold her in singular veneration, like a Notre-Dame; and a certain tiny poignard, which the buxom dame always wears about her, in some nook, in spite of the ordinances of the provost, and which one causes to fly out into her hands by squeezing her waist.'Tis a proud wasp, I can tell you!"
The archdeacon pressed Gringoire with questions.
La Esmeralda, in the judgment of Gringoire, was an inoffensive and charming creature, pretty, with the exception of a pout which was peculiar to her; a na?ve and passionate damsel, ignorant of everything and enthusiastic about everything; not yet aware of the difference between a man and a woman, even in her dreams; made like that; wild especially over dancing, noise, the open air; a sort of woman bee, with invisible wings on her feet, and living in a whirlwind.She owed this nature to the wandering life which she had always led.Gringoire had succeeded in learning that, while a mere child, she had traversed Spain and Catalonia, even to Sicily; he believed that she had even been taken by the caravan of Zingari, of which she formed a part, to the kingdom of Algiers, a country situated in Achaia, which country adjoins, on one side Albania and Greece; on the other, the Sicilian Sea, which is the road to Constantinople.The Bohemians, said Gringoire, were vassals of the King of Algiers, in his quality of chief of the White Moors.One thing is certain, that la Esmeralda had come to France while still very young, by way of Hungary.From all these countries the young girl had brought back fragments of queer jargons, songs, and strange ideas, which made her language as motley as her costume, half parisian, half African.However, the people of the quarters which she frequented loved her for her gayety, her daintiness, her lively manners, her dances, and her songs.She believed herself to be hated, in all the city, by but two persons, of whom she often spoke in terror: the sacked nun of the Tour-Roland, a villanous recluse who cherished some secret grudge against these gypsies, and who cursed the poor dancer every time that the latter passed before her window; and a priest, who never met her without casting at her looks and words which frightened her.
The mention of this last circumstance disturbed the archdeacon greatly, though Gringoire paid no attention to his perturbation; to such an extent had two months sufficed to cause the heedless poet to forget the singular details of the evening on which he had met the gypsy, and the presence of the archdeacon in it all.Otherwise, the little dancer feared nothing; she did not tell fortunes, which protected her against those trials for magic which were so frequently instituted against gypsy women.And then, Gringoire held the position of her brother, if not of her husband.After all, the philosopher endured this sort of platonic marriage very patiently.It meant a shelter and bread at least.Every morning, he set out from the lair of the thieves, generally with the gypsy; he helped her make her collections of targes* and little blanks** in the squares; each evening he returned to the same roof with her, allowed her to bolt herself into her little chamber, and slept the sleep of the just.A very sweet existence, taking it all in all, he said, and well adapted to revery.And then, on his soul and conscience, the philosopher was not very sure that he was madly in love with the gypsy.He loved her goat almost as dearly.It was a charming animal, gentle, intelligent, clever; a learned goat.Nothing was more common in the Middle Ages than these learned animals, which amazed people greatly, and often led their instructors to the stake.But the witchcraft of the goat with the golden hoofs was a very innocent species of magic.Gringoire explained them to the archdeacon, whom these details seemed to interest deeply.In the majority of cases, it was sufficient to present the tambourine to the goat in such or such a manner, in order to obtain from him the trick desired.He had been trained to this by the gypsy, who possessed, in these delicate arts, so rare a talent that two months had sufficed to teach the goat to write, with movable letters, the word "phoebus."
*An ancient Burgundian coin.
** An ancient French coin.
"'phoebus!'" said the priest; "why 'phoebus'?"
"I know not," replied Gringoire."perhaps it is a word which she believes to be endowed with some magic and secret virtue.She often repeats it in a low tone when she thinks that she is alone."
"Are you sure," persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, "that it is only a word and not a name?"
"The name of whom?" said the poet.
"How should I know?" said the priest.
"This is what I imagine, messire.These Bohemians are something like Guebrs, and adore the sun.Hence, phoebus."
"That does not seem so clear to me as to you, Master pierre."
"After all, that does not concern me.Let her mumble her phoebus at her pleasure.One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he does her."
"Who is Djali?"
"The goat."
The archdeacon dropped his chin into his hand, and appeared to reflect for a moment.All at once he turned abruptly to Gringoire once more.
"And do you swear to me that you have not touched her?"
"Whom?" said Gringoire; "the goat?"
"No, that woman."
"My wife?I swear to you that I have not."
"You are often alone with her?"
"A good hour every evening."
porn Claude frowned.
"Oh! oh! ~Solus cum sola non cogitabuntur orare pater Noster~."
"Upon my soul, I could say the ~pater~, and the ~Ave Maria~, and the ~Credo in Deum patrem omnipotentem~ without her paying any more attention to me than a chicken to a church."
"Swear to me, by the body of your mother," repeated the archdeacon violently, "that you have not touched that creature with even the tip of your finger."
"I will also swear it by the head of my father, for the two things have more affinity between them.But, my reverend master, permit me a question in my turn."
"Speak, sir."
"What concern is it of yours?"
The archdeacon's pale face became as crimson as the cheek of a young girl.He remained for a moment without answering; then, with visible embarrassment,--
"Listen, Master pierre Gringoire.You are not yet damned, so far as I know.I take an interest in you, and wish you well.Now the least contact with that Egyptian of the demon would make you the vassal of Satan.You know that 'tis always the body which ruins the soul.Woe to you if you approach that woman!That is all."
"I tried once," said Gringoire, scratching his ear; "it was the first day: but I got stung."
"You were so audacious, Master pierre?" and the priest's brow clouded over again.
"On another occasion," continued the poet, with a smile, "I peeped through the keyhole, before going to bed, and I beheld the most delicious dame in her shift that ever made a bed creak under her bare foot."
"Go to the devil!" cried the priest, with a terrible look; and, giving the amazed Gringoire a push on the shoulders, he plunged, with long strides, under the gloomiest arcades of the cathedral.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER III.THE BELLS.¡·
After the morning in the pillory, the neighbors of Notre- Dame thought they noticed that Quasimodo's ardor for ringing had grown cool.Formerly, there had been peals for every occasion, long morning serenades, which lasted from prime to compline; peals from the belfry for a high mass, rich scales drawn over the smaller bells for a wedding, for a christening, and mingling in the air like a rich embroidery of all sorts of charming sounds.The old church, all vibrating and sonorous, was in a perpetual joy of bells.One was constantly conscious of the presence of a spirit of noise and caprice, who sang through all those mouths of brass.Now that spirit seemed to have departed; the cathedral seemed gloomy, and gladly remained silent; festivals and funerals had the simple peal, dry and bare, demanded by the ritual, nothing more.Of the double noise which constitutes a church, the organ within, the bell without, the organ alone remained.One would have said that there was no longer a musician in the belfry.Quasimodo was always there, nevertheless; what, then, had happened to him?Was it that the shame and despair of the pillory still lingered in the bottom of his heart, that the lashes of his tormentor's whip reverberated unendingly in his soul, and that the sadness of such treatment had wholly extinguished in him even his passion for the bells? or was it that Marie had a rival in the heart of the bellringer of Notre-Dame, and that the great bell and her fourteen sisters were neglected for something more amiable and more beautiful?
It chanced that, in the year of grace 1482, Annunciation Day fell on Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of March.That day the air was so pure and light that Quasimodo felt some returning affection for his bells.He therefore ascended the northern tower while the beadle below was opening wide the doors of the church, which were then enormous panels of stout wood, covered with leather, bordered with nails of gilded iron, and framed in carvings "very artistically elaborated."
On arriving in the lofty bell chamber, Quasimodo gazed for some time at the six bells and shook his head sadly, as though groaning over some foreign element which had interposed itself in his heart between them and him.But when he had set them to swinging, when he felt that cluster of bells moving under his hand, when he saw, for he did not hear it, the palpitating octave ascend and descend that sonorous scale, like a bird hopping from branch to branch; when the demon Music, that demon who shakes a sparkling bundle of strette, trills and arpeggios, had taken possession of the poor deaf man, he became happy once more, he forgot everything, and his heart expanding, made his face beam.
He went and came, he beat his hands together, he ran from rope to rope, he animated the six singers with voice and gesture, like the leader of an orchestra who is urging on intelligent musicians.
"Go on," said he, "go on, go on, Gabrielle, pour out all thy noise into the place, 'tis a festival to-day.No laziness, Thibauld; thou art relaxing; go on, go on, then, art thou rusted, thou sluggard?That is well! quick! quick! let not thy clapper be seen!Make them all deaf like me.That's it, Thibauld, bravely done!Guillaume!Guillaume! thou art the largest, and pasquier is the smallest, and pasquier does best.Let us wager that those who hear him will understand him better than they understand thee.Good! good! my Gabrielle, stoutly, more stoutly!Eli!what are you doing up aloft there, you two Moineaux (sparrows)?I do not see you making the least little shred of noise.What is the meaning of those beaks of copper which seem to be gaping when they should sing?Come, work now, 'tis the Feast of the Annunciation.The sun is fine, the chime must be fine also.poor Guillaume! thou art all out of breath, my big fellow!"
He was wholly absorbed in spurring on his bells, all six of which vied with each other in leaping and shaking their shining haunches, like a noisy team of Spanish mules, pricked on here and there by the apostrophes of the muleteer.
All at once, on letting his glance fall between the large slate scales which cover the perpendicular wall of the bell tower at a certain height, he beheld on the square a young girl, fantastically dressed, stop, spread out on the ground a carpet, on which a small goat took up its post, and a group of spectators collect around her.This sight suddenly changed the course of his ideas, and congealed his enthusiasm as a breath of air congeals melted rosin.He halted, turned his back to the bells, and crouched down behind the projecting roof of slate, fixing upon the dancer that dreamy, sweet, and tender look which had already astonished the archdeacon on one occasion.Meanwhile, the forgotten bells died away abruptly and all together, to the great disappointment of the lovers of bell ringing, who were listening in good faith to the peal from above the pont du Change, and who went away dumbfounded, like a dog who has been offered a bone and given a stone.

¡¶µÚÆß¾í Èý¡¡´óÖÓ¡·
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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER IV.~ANArKH~. Page 1¡·
It chanced that upon a fine morning in this same month of March, I think it was on Saturday the 29th, Saint Eustache's day, our young friend the student, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, perceived, as he was dressing himself, that his breeches, which contained his purse, gave out no metallic ring."poor purse," he said, drawing it from his fob, "what! not the smallest parisis! how cruelly the dice, beer-pots, and Venus have depleted thee!How empty, wrinkled, limp, thou art!Thou resemblest the throat of a fury!I ask you, Messer Cicero, and Messer Seneca, copies of whom, all dog's-eared, I behold scattered on the floor, what profits it me to know, better than any governor of the mint, or any Jew on the pont aux Changeurs, that a golden crown stamped with a crown is worth thirty-five unzains of twenty-five sous, and eight deniers parisis apiece, and that a crown stamped with a crescent is worth thirty-six unzains of twenty-six sous, six deniers tournois apiece, if I have not a single wretched black liard to risk on the double-six!Oh!Consul Cicero! this is no calamity from which one extricates one's self with periphrases, ~quemadmodum~, and ~verum enim vero~!"
He dressed himself sadly.An idea had occurred to him as he laced his boots, but he rejected it at first; nevertheless, it returned, and he put on his waistcoat wrong side out, an evident sign of violent internal combat.At last he dashed his cap roughly on the floor, and exclaimed: "So much the worse! Let come of it what may.I am going to my brother!I shall catch a sermon, but I shall catch a crown."
Then be hastily donned his long jacket with furred half- sleeves, picked up his cap, and went out like a man driven to desperation.
He descended the Rue de la Harpe toward the City.As he passed the Rue de la Huchette, the odor of those admirable spits, which were incessantly turning, tickled his olfactory apparatus, and he bestowed a loving glance toward the Cyclopean roast, which one day drew from the Franciscan friar, Calatagirone, this pathetic exclamation: ~Veramente, queste rotisserie sono cosa stupenda~!*But Jehan had not the wherewithal to buy a breakfast, and he plunged, with a profound sigh, under the gateway of the petit-Chatelet, that enormous double trefoil of massive towers which guarded the entrance to the City.
*Truly, these roastings are a stupendous thing!
He did not even take the trouble to cast a stone in passing, as was the usage, at the miserable statue of that p¨¦rinet Leclerc who had delivered up the paris of Charles VI. to the English, a crime which his effigy, its face battered with stones and soiled with mud, expiated for three centuries at the corner of the Rue de la Harpe and the Rue de Buci, as in an eternal pillory.
The petit-pont traversed, the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi¨¨ve crossed, Jehan de Molendino found himself in front of Notre- Dame.Then indecision seized upon him once more, and he paced for several minutes round the statue of M. Legris, repeating to himself with anguish: "The sermon is sure, the crown is doubtful."
He stopped a beadle who emerged from the cloister,--"Where is monsieur the archdeacon of Josas?"
"I believe that he is in his secret cell in the tower," said the beadle; "I should advise you not to disturb him there, unless you come from some one like the pope or monsieur the king."
Jehan clapped his hands.
"~B¨¦cliable~! here's a magnificent chance to see the famous sorcery cell!"
This reflection having brought him to a decision, he plunged resolutely into the small black doorway, and began the ascent of the spiral of Saint-Gilles, which leads to the upper stories of the tower."I am going to see," he said to himself on the way."By the ravens of the Holy Virgin! it must needs be a curious thing, that cell which my reverend brother hides so secretly!'Tis said that he lights up the kitchens of hell there, and that he cooks the philosopher's stone there over a hot fire.~B¨¦dieu~!I care no more for the philosopher's stone than for a pebble, and I would rather find over his furnace an omelette of Easter eggs and bacon, than the biggest philosopher's stone in the world."'
On arriving at the gallery of slender columns, he took breath for a moment, and swore against the interminable staircase by I know not how many million cartloads of devils; then he resumed his ascent through the narrow door of the north tower, now closed to the public.Several moments after passing the bell chamber, he came upon a little landing-place, built in a lateral niche, and under the vault of a low, pointed door, whose enormous lock and strong iron bars he was enabled to see through a loophole pierced in the opposite circular wall of the staircase.persons desirous of visiting this door at the present day will recognize it by this inscription engraved in white letters on the black wall: "J'ADORE CORALIE, 1823.SIGNE UGENE.""Sign¨¦" stands in the text.
"Ugh!" said the scholar; "'tis here, no doubt."
The key was in the lock, the door was very close to him; he gave it a gentle push and thrust his head through the opening.
The reader cannot have failed to turn over the admirable works of Rembrandt, that Shakespeare of painting.Amid so many marvellous engravings, there is one etching in particular, which is supposed to represent Doctor Faust, and which it is impossible to contemplate without being dazzled.It represents a gloomy cell; in the centre is a table loaded with hideous objects; skulls, spheres, alembics, compasses, hieroglyphic parchments.The doctor is before this table clad in his large coat and covered to the very eyebrows with his furred cap.He is visible only to his waist.He has half risen from his immense arm-chair, his clenched fists rest on the table, and he is gazing with curiosity and terror at a large luminous circle, formed of magic letters, which gleams from the wall beyond, like the solar spectrum in a dark chamber. This cabalistic sun seems to tremble before the eye, and fills the wan cell with its mysterious radiance.It is horrible and it is beautiful.
Something very similar to Faust's cell presented itself to Jehan's view, when he ventured his head through the half- open door.It also was a gloomy and sparsely lighted retreat. There also stood a large arm-chair and a large table, compasses, alembics, skeletons of animals suspended from the ceiling, a globe rolling on the floor, hippocephali mingled promiscuously with drinking cups, in which quivered leaves of gold, skulls placed upon vellum checkered with figures and characters, huge manuscripts piled up wide open, without mercy on the cracking corners of the parchment; in short, all the rubbish of science, and everywhere on this confusion dust and spiders' webs; but there was no circle of luminous letters, no doctor in an ecstasy contemplating the flaming vision, as the eagle gazes upon the sun.
Nevertheless, the cell was not deserted.A man was seated in the arm-chair, and bending over the table.Jehan, to whom his back was turned, could see only his shoulders and the back of his skull; but he had no difficulty in recognizing that bald head, which nature had provided with an eternal tonsure, as though desirous of marking, by this external symbol, the archdeacon's irresistible clerical vocation.
Jehan accordingly recognized his brother; but the door had been opened so softly, that nothing warned Dom Claude of his presence.The inquisitive scholar took advantage of this circumstance to examine the cell for a few moments at his leisure.A large furnace, which he had not at first observed, stood to the left of the arm-chair, beneath the window.The ray of light which penetrated through this aperture made its way through a spider's circular web, which tastefully inscribed its delicate rose in the arch of the window, and in the centre of which the insect architect hung motionless, like the hub of this wheel of lace.Upon the furnace were accumulated in disorder, all sorts of vases, earthenware bottles, glass retorts, and mattresses of charcoal.Jehan observed, with a sigh, that there was no frying-pan."How cold the kitchen utensils are!" he said to himself.
In fact, there was no fire in the furnace, and it seemed as though none had been lighted for a long time.A glass mask, which Jehan noticed among the utensils of alchemy, and which served no doubt, to protect the archdeacon's face when he was working over some substance to be dreaded, lay in one corner covered with dust and apparently forgotten.Beside it lay a pair of bellows no less dusty, the upper side of which bore this inscription incrusted in copper letters: SpIRA SpERA.
Other inscriptions were written, in accordance with the fashion of the hermetics, in great numbers on the walls; some traced with ink, others engraved with a metal point.There were, moreover, Gothic letters, Hebrew letters, Greek letters, and Roman letters, pell-mell; the inscriptions overflowed at haphazard, on top of each other, the more recent effacing the more ancient, and all entangled with each other, like the branches in a thicket, like pikes in an affray.It was, in fact, a strangely confused mingling of all human philosophies, all reveries, all human wisdom.Here and there one shone out from among the rest like a banner among lance heads. Generally, it was a brief Greek or Roman device, such as the Middle Ages knew so well how to formulate.--~Unde?Inde?--Homo homini monstrurn-Ast'ra, castra, nomen, numen.--Meya Bibklov, ueya xaxov.--Sapere aude.Fiat ubi vult~--etc.; sometimes a word devoid of all apparent sense, ~Avayxoqpayia~, which possibly contained a bitter allusion to the regime of the cloister; sometimes a simple maxim of clerical discipline formulated in a regular hexameter ~Coelestem dominum terrestrem dicite dominum~.There was also Hebrew jargon, of which Jehan, who as yet knew but little Greek, understood nothing; and all were traversed in every direction by stars, by figures of men or animals, and by intersecting triangles; and this contributed not a little to make the scrawled wall of the cell resemble a sheet of paper over which a monkey had drawn back and forth a pen filled with ink.
The whole chamber, moreover, presented a general aspect of abandonment and dilapidation; and the bad state of the utensils induced the supposition that their owner had long been distracted from his labors by other preoccupations. Meanwhile, this master, bent over a vast manuscript, ornamented with fantastical illustrations, appeared to be tormented by an idea which incessantly mingled with his meditations.That at least was Jehan's idea, when he heard him exclaim, with the thoughtful breaks of a dreamer thinking aloud,--
"Yes, Manou said it, and Zoroaster taught it! the sun is born from fire, the moon from the sun; fire is the soul of the universe; its elementary atoms pour forth and flow incessantly upon the world through infinite channels!At the point where these currents intersect each other in the heavens, they produce light; at their points of intersection on earth, they produce gold.Light, gold; the same thing! From fire to the concrete state.The difference between the visible and the palpable, between the fluid and the solid in the same substance, between water and ice, nothing more. These are no dreams; it is the general law of nature.But what is one to do in order to extract from science the secret of this general law?What! this light which inundates my hand is gold!These same atoms dilated in accordance with a certain law need only be condensed in accordance with another law.How is it to be done?Some have fancied by burying a ray of sunlight, Averro?s,--yes, 'tis Averro?s,-- Averro?s buried one under the first pillar on the left of the sanctuary of the Koran, in the great Mahometan mosque of Cordova; but the vault cannot he opened for the purpose of ascertaining whether the operation has succeeded, until after the lapse of eight thousand years.
"The devil!" said Jehan, to himself, "'tis a long while to wait for a crown!"
"Others have thought," continued the dreamy archdeacon, "that it would be better worth while to operate upon a ray of Sirius.But 'tis exceeding hard to obtain this ray pure, because of the simultaneous presence of other stars whose rays mingle with it.Flamel esteemed it more simple to operate upon terrestrial fire.Flamel! there's predestination in the name!~Flamma~! yes, fire.All lies there.The diamond is contained in the carbon, gold is in the fire.But how to extract it?Magistri affirms that there are certain feminine names, which possess a charm so sweet and mysterious, that it suffices to pronounce them during the operation.Let us read what Manon says on the matter: 'Where women are honored, the divinities are rejoiced; where they are despised, it is useless to pray to God.The mouth of a woman is constantly pure; it is a running water, it is a ray of sunlight.The name of a woman should be agreeable, sweet, fanciful; it should end in long vowels, and resemble words of benediction.'Yes, the sage is right; in truth, Maria, Sophia, la Esmeral--Damnation! always that thought!"
And he closed the book violently.
He passed his hand over his brow, as though to brush away the idea which assailed him; then he took from the table a nail and a small hammer, whose handle was curiously painted with cabalistic letters.
"For some time," he said with a bitter smile, "I have failed in all my experiments! one fixed idea possesses me, and sears my brain like fire.I have not even been able to discover the secret of Cassiodorus, whose lamp burned without wick and without oil.A simple matter, nevertheless--"
"The deuce!" muttered Jehan in his beard.
"Hence," continued the priest, "one wretched thought is sufficient to render a man weak and beside himself!Oh! how Claude pernelle would laugh at me.She who could not turn Nicholas Flamel aside, for one moment, from his pursuit of the great work!What!I hold in my hand the magic hammer of Z¨¦chi¨¦l¨¦! at every blow dealt by the formidable rabbi, from the depths of his cell, upon this nail, that one of his enemies whom he had condemned, were he a thousand leagues away, was buried a cubit deep in the earth which swallowed him.The King of France himself, in consequence of once having inconsiderately knocked at the door of the thermaturgist, sank to the knees through the pavement of his own paris.This took place three centuries ago.Well! I possess the hammer and the nail, and in my hands they are utensils no more formidable than a club in the hands of a maker of edge tools.And yet all that is required is to find the magic word which Z¨¦chi¨¦l¨¦ pronounced when he struck his nail."
"What nonsense!" thought Jehan.
"Let us see, let us try!" resumed the archdeacon briskly. "Were I to succeed, I should behold the blue spark flash from the head of the nail.Emen-H¨¦tan!Emen-H¨¦tan! That's not it.Sig¨¦ani!Sig¨¦ani!May this nail open the tomb to any one who bears the name of phoebus!A curse upon it!Always and eternally the same idea!"
And he flung away the hammer in a rage.Then he sank down so deeply on the arm-chair and the table, that Jehan lost him from view behind the great pile of manuscripts.For the space of several minutes, all that he saw was his fist convulsively clenched on a book.Suddenly, Dom Claude sprang up, seized a compass and engraved in silence upon the wall in capital letters, this Greek word
~ANArKH~.
"My brother is mad," said Jehan to himself; "it would have been far more simple to write ~Fatum~, every one is not obliged to know Greek."
The archdeacon returned and seated himself in his armchair, and placed his head on both his hands, as a sick man does, whose head is heavy and burning.
The student watched his brother with surprise.He did not know, he who wore his heart on his sleeve, he who observed only the good old law of Nature in the world, he who allowed his passions to follow their inclinations, and in whom the lake of great emotions was always dry, so freely did he let it off each day by fresh drains,--he did not know with what fury the sea of human passions ferments and boils when all egress is denied to it, how it accumulates, how it swells, how it overflows, how it hollows out the heart; how it breaks in inward sobs, and dull convulsions, until it has rent its dikes and burst its bed.The austere and glacial envelope of Claude Frollo, that cold surface of steep and inaccessible virtue, had always deceived Jehan.The merry scholar had never dreamed that there was boiling lava, furious and profound, beneath the snowy brow of AEtna.
We do not know whether he suddenly became conscious of these things; but, giddy as he was, he understood that he had seen what he ought not to have seen, that he had just surprised the soul of his elder brother in one of its most secret altitudes, and that Claude must not be allowed to know it. Seeing that the archdeacon had fallen back into his former immobility, he withdrew his head very softly, and made some noise with his feet outside the door, like a person who has just arrived and is giving warning of his approach.
"Enter!" cried the archdeacon, from the interior of his cell; "I was expecting you.I left the door unlocked expressly; enter Master Jacques!"
The scholar entered boldly.The archdeacon, who was very much embarrassed by such a visit in such a place, trembled in his arm-chair."What! 'tis you, Jehan?"
"'Tis a J, all the same," said the scholar, with his ruddy, merry, and audacious face.
Dom Claude's visage had resumed its severe expression.
"What are you come for?"
"Brother," replied the scholar, making an effort to assume a decent, pitiful, and modest mien, and twirling his cap in his hands with an innocent air; "I am come to ask of you--"
"What?"
"A little lecture on morality, of which I stand greatly in need," Jehan did not dare to add aloud,--"and a little money of which I am in still greater need."This last member of his phrase remained unuttered.
"Monsieur," said the archdeacon, in a cold tone, "I am greatly displeased with you."
"Alas!" sighed the scholar.
Dom Claude made his arm-chair describe a quarter circle, and gazed intently at Jehan.
"I am very glad to see you."
This was a formidable exordium.Jehan braced himself for a rough encounter.
"Jehan, complaints are brought me about you every day. What affray was that in which you bruised with a cudgel a little vicomte, Albert de Ramonchamp?"
"Oh!" said Jehan, "a vast thing that!A malicious page amused himself by splashing the scholars, by making his horse gallop through the mire!"
"Who," pursued the archdeacon, "is that Mahiet Fargel, whose gown you have torn?~Tunicam dechiraverunt~, saith the complaint."
"Ah bah! a wretched cap of a Montaigu!Isn't that it?"
"The complaint says ~tunicam~ and not ~cappettam~.Do you know Latin?"
Jehan did not reply.
"Yes," pursued the priest shaking his head, "that is the state of learning and letters at the present day.The Latin tongue is hardly understood, Syriac is unknown, Greek so odious that 'tis accounted no ignorance in the most learned to skip a Greek word without reading it, and to say, '~Groecum est non legitur~.'"

¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER IV.~ANArKH~. Page 2¡·
The scholar raised his eyes boldly."Monsieur my brother, doth it please you that I shall explain in good French vernacular that Greek word which is written yonder on the wall?"
"What word?"
"'~ANArKH~."
A slight flush spread over the cheeks of the priest with their high bones, like the puff of smoke which announces on the outside the secret commotions of a volcano.The student hardly noticed it.
"Well, Jehan," stammered the elder brother with an effort, "What is the meaning of yonder word?"
"FATE."
Dom Claude turned pale again, and the scholar pursued carelessly.
"And that word below it, graved by the same hand, '~Ay¨¢yvela~, signifies 'impurity.'You see that people do know their Greek."
And the archdeacon remained silent.This Greek lesson had rendered him thoughtful.
Master Jehan, who possessed all the artful ways of a spoiled child, judged that the moment was a favorable one in which to risk his request.Accordingly, he assumed an extremely soft tone and began,--
"My good brother, do you hate me to such a degree as to look savagely upon me because of a few mischievous cuffs and blows distributed in a fair war to a pack of lads and brats, ~quibusdam marmosetis~?You see, good Brother Claude, that people know their Latin."
But all this caressing hypocrisy did not have its usual effect on the severe elder brother.Cerberus did not bite at the honey cake.The archdeacon's brow did not lose a single wrinkle.
"What are you driving at?" he said dryly.
"Well, in point of fact, this!" replied Jehan bravely, "I stand in need of money."
At this audacious declaration, the archdeacon's visage assumed a thoroughly pedagogical and paternal expression.
"You know, Monsieur Jehan, that our fief of Tirecbappe, putting the direct taxes and the rents of the nine and twenty houses in a block, yields only nine and thirty livres, eleven sous, six deniers, parisian.It is one half more than in the time of the brothers paclet, but it is not much."
"I need money," said Jehan stoically.
"You know that the official has decided that our twenty-one houses should he moved full into the fief of the Bishopric, and that we could redeem this homage only by paying the reverend bishop two marks of silver gilt of the price of six livres parisis.Now, these two marks I have not yet been able to get together.You know it."
"I know that I stand in need of money," repeated Jehan for the third time.
"And what are you going to do with it?"
This question caused a flash of hope to gleam before Jehan's eyes.He resumed his dainty, caressing air.
"Stay, dear Brother Claude, I should not come to you, with any evil motive.There is no intention of cutting a dash in the taverns with your unzains, and of strutting about the streets of paris in a caparison of gold brocade, with a lackey, ~cum meo laquasio~.No, brother, 'tis for a good work."
"What good work?" demanded Claude, somewhat surprised.
"Two of my friends wish to purchase an outfit for the infant of a poor Haudriette widow.It is a charity.It will cost three forms, and I should like to contribute to it."
"What are names of your two friends?"
"pierre l'Assommeur and Baptiste Croque-Oison*."
*peter the Slaughterer; and Baptist Crack-Gosling.
"Hum," said the archdeacon; "those are names as fit for a good work as a catapult for the chief altar."
It is certain that Jehan had made a very bad choice of names for his two friends.He realized it too late.
"And then," pursued the sagacious Claude, "what sort of an infant's outfit is it that is to cost three forms, and that for the child of a Haudriette?Since when have the Haudriette widows taken to having babes in swaddling-clothes?"
Jehan broke the ice once more.
"Eh, well! yes!I need money in order to go and see Isabeau la Thierrye to-night; in the Val-d' Amour!"
"Impure wretch!" exclaimed the priest.
"~Avayveia~!" said Jehan.
This quotation, which the scholar borrowed with malice, perchance, from the wall of the cell, produced a singular effect on the archdeacon.He bit his lips and his wrath was drowned in a crimson flush.
"Begone," he said to Jehan."I am expecting some one."
The scholar made one more effort.
"Brother Claude, give me at least one little parisis to buy something to eat."
"How far have you gone in the Decretals of Gratian?" demanded Dom Claude.
"I have lost my copy books.
"Where are you in your Latin humanities?"
"My copy of Horace has been stolen."
"Where are you in Aristotle?"
"I' faith! brother what father of the church is it, who says that the errors of heretics have always had for their lurking place the thickets of Aristotle's metaphysics?A plague on Aristotle!I care not to tear my religion on his metaphysics."
"Young man," resumed the archdeacon, "at the king's last entry, there was a young gentleman, named philippe de Comines, who wore embroidered on the housings of his horse this device, upon which I counsel you to meditate: ~Qui non laborat, non manducet~."
The scholar remained silent for a moment, with his finger in his ear, his eyes on the ground, and a discomfited mien.
All at once he turned round to Claude with the agile quickness of a wagtail.
"So, my good brother, you refuse me a sou parisis, wherewith to buy a crust at a baker's shop?"
"~Qui non laborat, non manducet~."
At this response of the inflexible archdeacon, Jehan hid his head in his hands, like a woman sobbing, and exclaimed with an expression of despair: "~Orororororoi~."
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" demanded Claude, surprised at this freak.
"What indeed!" said the scholar; and he lifted to Claude his impudent eyes into which he had just thrust his fists in order to communicate to them the redness of tears; "'tis Greek! 'tis an anapaest of AEschylus which expresses grief perfectly."
And here he burst into a laugh so droll and violent that it made the archdeacon smile.It was Claude's fault, in fact: why had he so spoiled that child?
"Oh! good Brother Claude," resumed Jehan, emboldened by this smile, "look at my worn out boots.Is there a cothurnus in the world more tragic than these boots, whose soles are hanging out their tongues?"
The archdeacon promptly returned to his original severity.
"I will send you some new boots, but no money."
"Only a poor little parisis, brother," continued the suppliant Jehan."I will learn Gratian by heart, I will believe firmly in God, I will be a regular pythagoras of science and virtue.But one little parisis, in mercy!Would you have famine bite me with its jaws which are gaping in front of me, blacker, deeper, and more noisome than a Tartarus or the nose of a monk?"
Dom Claude shook his wrinkled head: "~Qui non laborat~--"
Jehan did not allow him to finish.
"Well," he exclaimed, "to the devil then!Long live joy!I will live in the tavern, I will fight, I will break pots and I will go and see the wenches."And thereupon, he hurled his cap at the wall, and snapped his fingers like castanets.
The archdeacon surveyed him with a gloomy air.
"Jehan, you have no soul."
"In that case, according to Epicurius, I lack a something made of another something which has no name."
"Jehan, you must think seriously of amending your ways."
"Oh, come now," cried the student, gazing in turn at his brother and the alembics on the furnace, "everything is preposterous here, both ideas and bottles!"
"Jehan, you are on a very slippery downward road.Do you know whither you are going?"
"To the wine-shop," said Jehan.
"The wine-shop leads to the pillory."
"'Tis as good a lantern as any other, and perchance with that one, Diogenes would have found his man."
"The pillory leads to the gallows."
"The gallows is a balance which has a man at one end and the whole earth at the other.'Tis fine to be the man."
"The gallows leads to hell."
"'Tis a big fire.".
"Jehan, Jehan, the end will be bad."
"The beginning will have been good."
At that moment, the sound of a footstep was heard on the staircase.
"Silence!" said the archdeacon, laying his finger on his mouth, "here is Master Jacques.Listen, Jehan," he added, in a low voice; "have a care never to speak of what you shall have seen or heard here.Hide yourself quickly under the furnace, and do not breathe."
The scholar concealed himself; just then a happy idea occurred to him.
"By the way, Brother Claude, a form for not breathing."
"Silence!I promise."
"You must give it to me."
"Take it, then!" said the archdeacon angrily, flinging his purse at him.
Jehan darted under the furnace again, and the door opened.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER V.THE TWO MEN CLOTHED IN BLACK.¡·
The personage who entered wore a black gown and a gloomy mien.The first point which struck the eye of our Jehan (who, as the reader will readily surmise, had ensconced himself in his nook in such a manner as to enable him to see and hear everything at his good pleasure) was the perfect sadness of the garments and the visage of this new-corner. There was, nevertheless, some sweetness diffused over that face, but it was the sweetness of a cat or a judge, an affected, treacherous sweetness.He was very gray and wrinkled, and not far from his sixtieth year, his eyes blinked, his eyebrows were white, his lip pendulous, and his hands large.When Jehan saw that it was only this, that is to say, no doubt a physician or a magistrate, and that this man had a nose very far from his mouth, a sign of stupidity, he nestled down in his hole, in despair at being obliged to pass an indefinite time in such an uncomfortable attitude, and in such bad company.
The archdeacon, in the meantime, had not even risen to receive this personage.He had made the latter a sign to seat himself on a stool near the door, and, after several moments of a silence which appeared to be a continuation of a preceding meditation, he said to him in a rather patronizing way, "Good day, Master Jacques."
"Greeting, master," replied the man in black.
There was in the two ways in which "Master Jacques" was pronounced on the one hand, and the "master" by preeminence on the other, the difference between monseigneur and monsieur, between ~domine~ and ~domne~.It was evidently the meeting of a teacher and a disciple.
"Well!" resumed the archdeacon, after a fresh silence which Master Jacques took good care not to disturb, "how are you succeeding?"
"Alas! master," said the other, with a sad smile, "I am still seeking the stone.plenty of ashes.But not a spark of gold."
Dom Claude made a gesture of impatience."I am not talking to you of that, Master Jacques Charmolue, but of the trial of your magician.Is it not Marc Cenaine that you call him? the butler of the Court of Accounts?Does he confess his witchcraft?Have you been successful with the torture?"
"Alas! no," replied Master Jacques, still with his sad smile; "we have not that consolation.That man is a stone. We might have him boiled in the March¨¦ aux pourceaux, before he would say anything.Nevertheless, we are sparing nothing for the sake of getting at the truth; he is already thoroughly dislocated, we are applying all the herbs of Saint John's day; as saith the old comedian plautus,--
~'Advorsum stimulos, laminas, crucesque, compedesque, Nerros, catenas, carceres, numellas, pedicas, boias~.'
Nothing answers; that man is terrible.I am at my wit's end over him."
"You have found nothing new in his house?"
"I' faith, yes," said Master Jacques, fumbling in his pouch; "this parchment.There are words in it which we cannot comprehend.The criminal advocate, Monsieur philippe Lheulier, nevertheless, knows a little Hebrew, which he learned in that matter of the Jews of the Rue Kantersten, at Brussels."
So saying, Master Jacques unrolled a parchment."Give it here," said the archdeacon.And casting his eyes upon this writing: "pure magic, Master Jacques!" he exclaimed. "'Emen-H¨¦tan!''Tis the cry of the vampires when they arrive at the witches' sabbath.~per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso~!'Tis the command which chains the devil in hell. ~Hax, pax, max~! that refers to medicine.A formula against the bite of mad dogs.Master Jacques! you are procurator to the king in the Ecclesiastical Courts: this parchment is abominable."
"We will put the man to the torture once more.Here again," added Master Jacques, fumbling afresh in his pouch, "is something that we have found at Marc Cenaine's house."
It was a vessel belonging to the same family as those which covered Dom Claude's furnace.
"Ah!" said the archdeacon, "a crucible for alchemy."
"I will confess to you," continued Master Jacques, with his timid and awkward smile, "that I have tried it over the furnace, but I have succeeded no better than with my own."
The archdeacon began an examination of the vessel. "What has he engraved on his crucible?~Och! och~! the word which expels fleas!That Marc Cenaine is an ignoramus! I verily believe that you will never make gold with this!'Tis good to set in your bedroom in summer and that is all!"
"Since we are talking about errors," said the king's procurator, "I have just been studying the figures on the portal below before ascending hither; is your reverence quite sure that the opening of the work of physics is there portrayed on the side towards the H?tel-Dieu, and that among the seven nude figures which stand at the feet of Notre-Dame, that which has wings on his heels is Mercurius?"
"Yes," replied the priest; "'tis Augustin Nypho who writes it, that Italian doctor who had a bearded demon who acquainted him with all things.However, we will descend, and I will explain it to you with the text before us."
"Thanks, master," said Charmolue, bowing to the earth. "By the way, I was on the point of forgetting.When doth it please you that I shall apprehend the little sorceress?"
"What sorceress?"
"That gypsy girl you know, who comes every day to dance on the church square, in spite of the official's prohibition! She hath a demoniac goat with horns of the devil, which reads, which writes, which knows mathematics like picatrix, and which would suffice to hang all Bohemia.The prosecution is all ready; 'twill soon be finished, I assure you!A pretty creature, on my soul, that dancer!The handsomest black eyes!Two Egyptian carbuncles!When shall we begin?"
The archdeacon was excessively pale.
"I will tell you that hereafter," he stammered, in a voice that was barely articulate; then he resumed with an effort, "Busy yourself with Marc Cenaine."
"Be at ease," said Charmolue with a smile; "I'll buckle him down again for you on the leather bed when I get home. But 'tis a devil of a man; he wearies even pierrat Torterue himself, who hath hands larger than my own.As that good plautus saith,--
'~Nudus vinctus, centum pondo, es quando pendes per pedes~.'
The torture of the wheel and axle!'Tis the most effectual! He shall taste it!"
Dom Claude seemed absorbed in gloomy abstraction.He turned to Charmolue,--
"Master pierrat--Master Jacques, I mean, busy yourself with Marc Cenaine."
"Yes, yes, Dom Claude.poor man! he will have suffered like Mummol.What an idea to go to the witches' sabbath! a butler of the Court of Accounts, who ought to know Charlemagne's text; ~Stryga vel masea~!--In the matter of the little girl,--Smelarda, as they call her,--I will await your orders.Ah! as we pass through the portal, you will explain to me also the meaning of the gardener painted in relief, which one sees as one enters the church.Is it not the Sower?H¨¦! master, of what are you thinking, pray?"
Dom Claude, buried in his own thoughts, no longer listened to him.Charmolue, following the direction of his glance, perceived that it was fixed mechanically on the great spider's web which draped the window.At that moment, a bewildered fly which was seeking the March sun, flung itself through the net and became entangled there.On the agitation of his web, the enormous spider made an abrupt move from his central cell, then with one bound, rushed upon the fly, which he folded together with his fore antennae, while his hideous proboscis dug into the victim's bead."poor fly!" said the king's procurator in the ecclesiastical court; and he raised his hand to save it.The archdeacon, as though roused with a start, withheld his arm with convulsive violence.
"Master Jacques," he cried, "let fate take its course!" The procurator wheeled round in affright; it seemed to him that pincers of iron had clutched his arm.The priest's eye was staring, wild, flaming, and remained riveted on the horrible little group of the spider and the fly.
"Oh, yes!" continued the priest, in a voice which seemed to proceed from the depths of his being, "behold here a symbol of all.She flies, she is joyous, she is just born; she seeks the spring, the open air, liberty: oh, yes! but let her come in contact with the fatal network, and the spider issues from it, the hideous spider!poor dancer! poor, predestined fly!Let things take their course, Master Jacques, 'tis fate! Alas!Claude, thou art the spider!Claude, thou art the fly also!Thou wert flying towards learning, light, the sun. Thou hadst no other care than to reach the open air, the full daylight of eternal truth; but in precipitating thyself towards the dazzling window which opens upon the other world,--upon the world of brightness, intelligence, and science--blind fly! senseless, learned man! thou hast not perceived that subtle spider's web, stretched by destiny betwixt the light and thee--thou hast flung thyself headlong into it, and now thou art struggling with head broken and mangled wings between the iron antennae of fate!Master Jacques!Master Jacques! let the spider work its will!"
"I assure you," said Charmolue, who was gazing at him without comprehending him, "that I will not touch it.But release my arm, master, for pity's sake!You have a hand like a pair of pincers."
The archdeacon did not hear him."Oh, madman!" he went on, without removing his gaze from the window."And even couldst thou have broken through that formidable web, with thy gnat's wings, thou believest that thou couldst have reached the light?Alas! that pane of glass which is further on, that transparent obstacle, that wall of crystal, harder than brass, which separates all philosophies from the truth, how wouldst thou have overcome it?Oh, vanity of science! how many wise men come flying from afar, to dash their heads against thee!How many systems vainly fling themselves buzzing against that eternal pane!"
He became silent.These last ideas, which had gradually led him back from himself to science, appeared to have calmed him.Jacques Charmolue recalled him wholly to a sense of reality by addressing to him this question: "Come, now, master, when will you come to aid me in making gold?I am impatient to succeed."
The archdeacon shook his head, with a bitter smile."Master Jacques read Michel psellus' '~Dialogus de Energia et Operatione Daemonum~_.'What we are doing is not wholly innocent."
"Speak lower, master!I have my suspicions of it," said Jacques Charmolue."But one must practise a bit of hermetic science when one is only procurator of the king in the ecclesiastical court, at thirty crowns tournois a year.Only speak low."
At that moment the sound of jaws in the act of mastication, which proceeded from beneath the furnace, struck Charmolue's uneasy ear.
"What's that?" he inquired.
It was the scholar, who, ill at ease, and greatly bored in his hiding-place, had succeeded in discovering there a stale crust and a triangle of mouldy cheese, and had set to devouring the whole without ceremony, by way of consolation and breakfast. As he was very hungry, he made a great deal of noise, and he accented each mouthful strongly, which startled and alarmed the procurator.
"'Tis a cat of mine," said the archdeacon, quickly, "who is regaling herself under there with a mouse,"
This explanation satisfied Charmolue.
"In fact, master," he replied, with a respectful smile, "all great philosophers have their familiar animal.You know what Servius saith: '~Nullus enim locus sine genio est~,--for there is no place that hath not its spirit.'"
But Dom Claude, who stood in terror of some new freak on the part of Jehan, reminded his worthy disciple that they had some figures on the fa?ade to study together, and the two quitted the cell, to the accompaniment of a great "ouf!" from the scholar, who began to seriously fear that his knee would acquire the imprint of his chin.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER VI.THE EFFECT WHICH SEVEN OATHS IN THE OPEN AIR CAN PRODUCE.¡·
"~Te Deum Laudamus~!" exclaimed Master Jehan, creeping out from his hole, "the screech-owls have departed.Och! och!Hax! pax! max! fleas! mad dogs! the devil!I have had enough of their conversation!My head is humming like a bell tower.And mouldy cheese to boot!Come on!Let us descend, take the big brother's purse and convert all these coins into bottles!"
He cast a glance of tenderness and admiration into the interior of the precious pouch, readjusted his toilet, rubbed up his boots, dusted his poor half sleeves, all gray with ashes, whistled an air, indulged in a sportive pirouette, looked about to see whether there were not something more in the cell to take, gathered up here and there on the furnace some amulet in glass which might serve to bestow, in the guise of a trinket, on Isabeau la Thierrye, finally pushed open the door which his brother had left unfastened, as a last indulgence, and which he, in his turn, left open as a last piece of malice, and descended the circular staircase, skipping like a bird.
In the midst of the gloom of the spiral staircase, he elbowed something which drew aside with a growl; he took it for granted that it was Quasimodo, and it struck him as so droll that he descended the remainder of the staircase holding his sides with laughter.On emerging upon the place, he laughed yet more heartily.
He stamped his foot when he found himself on the ground once again."Oh!" said he, "good and honorable pavement of paris, cursed staircase, fit to put the angels of Jacob's ladder out of breath!What was I thinking of to thrust myself into that stone gimlet which pierces the sky; all for the sake of eating bearded cheese, and looking at the bell- towers of paris through a hole in the wall!"
He advanced a few paces, and caught sight of the two screech owls, that is to say, Dom Claude and Master Jacques Charmolue, absorbed in contemplation before a carving on the fa?ade.He approached them on tiptoe, and heard the archdeacon say in a low tone to Charmolue: "'Twas Guillaume de paris who caused a Job to be carved upon this stone of the hue of lapis-lazuli, gilded on the edges.Job represents the philosopher's stone, which must also be tried and martyrized in order to become perfect, as saith Raymond Lulle: ~Sub conservatione formoe speciftoe salva anima~."
"That makes no difference to me," said Jehan, "'tis I who have the purse."
At that moment he heard a powerful and sonorous voice articulate behind him a formidable series of oaths."~Sang Dieu!Ventre-.Dieu!B¨¦dieu!Corps de Dieu!Nombril de Belzebuth!Nom d'un pape!Come et tonnerre~."
"Upon my soul!" exclaimed Jehan, "that can only be my friend, Captain phoebus!"
This name of phoebus reached the ears of the archdeacon at the moment when he was explaining to the king's procurator the dragon which is hiding its tail in a bath, from which issue smoke and the head of a king.Dom Claude started, interrupted himself and, to the great amazement of Charmolue, turned round and beheld his brother Jehan accosting a tall officer at the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.
It was, in fact, Captain phoebus de Chateaupers.He was backed up against a corner of the house of his betrothed and swearing like a heathen.
"By my faith!Captain phoebus," said Jehan, taking him by the hand, "you are cursing with admirable vigor."
"Horns and thunder!" replied the captain.
"Horns and thunder yourself!" replied the student."Come now, fair captain, whence comes this overflow of fine words?"
"pardon me, good comrade Jehan," exclaimed phoebus, shaking his hand, "a horse going at a gallop cannot halt short.Now, I was swearing at a hard gallop.I have just been with those prudes, and when I come forth, I always find my throat full of curses, I must spit them out or strangle, ~ventre et tonnerre~!"
"Will you come and drink?" asked the scholar.
This proposition calmed the captain.
"I'm willing, but I have no money."
"But I have!"
"Bah! let's see it!"
Jehan spread out the purse before the captain's eyes, with dignity and simplicity.Meanwhile, the archdeacon, who had abandoned the dumbfounded Charmolue where he stood, had approached them and halted a few paces distant, watching them without their noticing him, so deeply were they absorbed in contemplation of the purse.
phoebus exclaimed: "A purse in your pocket, Jehan! 'tis the moon in a bucket of water, one sees it there but 'tis not there.There is nothing but its shadow.pardieu!let us wager that these are pebbles!"
Jehan replied coldly: "Here are the pebbles wherewith I pave my fob!"
And without adding another word, he emptied the purse on a neighboring post, with the air of a Roman saving his country.
"True God!" muttered phoebus, "targes, big-blanks, little blanks, mailles,* every two worth one of Tournay, farthings of paris, real eagle liards!'Tis dazzling!"
*An ancient copper coin, the forty-fourth part of a sou or the twelfth part of a farthing.
Jehan remained dignified and immovable.Several liards had rolled into the mud; the captain in his enthusiasm stooped to pick them up.Jehan restrained him.
"Fye, Captain phoebus de Chateaupers!"
phoebus counted the coins, and turning towards Jehan with solemnity, "Do you know, Jehan, that there are three and twenty sous parisis! whom have you plundered to-night, in the Street Cut-Weazand?"
Jehan flung back his blonde and curly head, and said, half- closing his eyes disdainfully,--
"We have a brother who is an archdeacon and a fool."
"~Corne de Dieu~!" exclaimed phoebus, "the worthy man!"
"Let us go and drink," said Jehan.
"Where shall we go?" said phoebus; "'To Eve's Apple.'"
"No, captain, to 'Ancient Science.'An old woman sawing a basket handle*; 'tis a rebus, and I like that."
* ~Une vielle qui scie une anse~.
"A plague on rebuses, Jehan! the wine is better at 'Eve's Apple'; and then, beside the door there is a vine in the sun which cheers me while I am drinking."
"Well! here goes for Eve and her apple," said the student, and taking phoebus's arm."By the way, my dear captain, you just mentioned the Rue Coupe-Gueule* That is a very bad form of speech; people are no longer so barbarous.They say, Coupe-Gorge**."
*Cut-Weazand Street.
** Cut-Throat Street.
The two friends set out towards "Eve's Apple."It is unnecessary to mention that they had first gathered up the money, and that the archdeacon followed them.
The archdeacon followed them, gloomy and haggard.Was this the phoebus whose accursed name had been mingled with all his thoughts ever since his interview with Gringoire?He did not know it, but it was at least a phoebus, and that magic name sufficed to make the archdeacon follow the two heedless comrades with the stealthy tread of a wolf, listening to their words and observing their slightest gestures with anxious attention.Moreover, nothing was easier than to hear everything they said, as they talked loudly, not in the least concerned that the passers-by were taken into their confidence.They talked of duels, wenches, wine pots, and folly.
At the turning of a street, the sound of a tambourine reached them from a neighboring square.Dom Claude heard the officer say to the scholar,--
"Thunder!Let us hasten our steps!"
"Why, phoebus?"
"I'm afraid lest the Bohemian should see me."
"What Bohemian?"
"The little girl with the goat."
"La Smeralda?"
"That's it, Jehan.I always forget her devil of a name. Let us make haste, she will recognize me.I don't want to have that girl accost me in the street."
"Do you know her, phoebus?"
Here the archdeacon saw phoebus sneer, bend down to Jehan's ear, and say a few words to him in a low voice; then phoebus burst into a laugh, and shook his head with a triumphant air.
"Truly?" said Jehan.
"Upon my soul!" said phoebus.
"This evening?"
"This evening."
"Are you sure that she will come?"
"Are you a fool, Jehan?Does one doubt such things?"
"Captain phoebus, you are a happy gendarme!"
The archdeacon heard the whole of this conversation.His teeth chattered; a visible shiver ran through his whole body. He halted for a moment, leaned against a post like a drunken man, then followed the two merry knaves.
At the moment when he overtook them once more, they had changed their conversation.He heard them singing at the top of their lungs the ancient refrain,--
~Les enfants des petits-Carreaux Se font pendre cornme des veaux~*.
* The children of the petits Carreaux let themselves be hung like calves.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER VII.THE MYSTERIOUS MONK.¡·
The illustrious wine shop of "Eve's Apple" was situated in the University, at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and the Rue de la Batonnier.It was a very spacious and very low hail on the ground floor, with a vaulted ceiling whose central spring rested upon a huge pillar of wood painted yellow; tables everywhere, shining pewter jugs hanging on the walls, always a large number of drinkers, a plenty of wenches, a window on the street, a vine at the door, and over the door a flaring piece of sheet-iron, painted with an apple and a woman, rusted by the rain and turning with the wind on an iron pin.This species of weather-vane which looked upon the pavement was the signboard.
Night was falling; the square was dark; the wine-shop, full of candles, flamed afar like a forge in the gloom; the noise of glasses and feasting, of oaths and quarrels, which escaped through the broken panes, was audible.Through the mist which the warmth of the room spread over the window in front, a hundred confused figures could be seen swarming, and from time to time a burst of noisy laughter broke forth from it.The passers-by who were going about their business, slipped past this tumultuous window without glancing at it. Only at intervals did some little ragged boy raise himself on tiptoe as far as the ledge, and hurl into the drinking-shop, that ancient, jeering hoot, with which drunken men were then pursued: "Aux Houls, saouls, saouls, saouls!"
Nevertheless, one man paced imperturbably back and forth in front of the tavern, gazing at it incessantly, and going no further from it than a pikernan from his sentry-box.He was enveloped in a mantle to his very nose.This mantle he had just purchased of the old-clothes man, in the vicinity of the "Eve's Apple," no doubt to protect himself from the cold of the March evening, possibly also, to conceal his costume. From time to time he paused in front of the dim window with its leaden lattice, listened, looked, and stamped his foot.
At length the door of the dram-shop opened.This was what he appeared to be waiting for.Two boon companions came forth.The ray of light which escaped from the door crimsoned for a moment their jovial faces.
The man in the mantle went and stationed himself on the watch under a porch on the other side of the street.
"~Corne et tonnerre~!" said one of the comrades."Seven o'clock is on the point of striking.'Tis the hour of my appointed meeting."
"I tell you," repeated his companion, with a thick tongue, "that I don't live in the Rue des Mauvaises paroles, ~indignus qui inter mala verba habitat~.I have a lodging in the Rue Jean-pain-Mollet, ~in vico Johannis pain-Mollet~.You are more horned than a unicorn if you assert the contrary. Every one knows that he who once mounts astride a bear is never after afraid; but you have a nose turned to dainties like Saint-Jacques of the hospital."
"Jehan, my friend, you are drunk," said the other.
The other replied staggering, "It pleases you to say so, phoebus; but it hath been proved that plato had the profile of a hound."
The reader has, no doubt, already recognized our two brave friends, the captain and the scholar.It appears that the man who was lying in wait for them had also recognized them, for he slowly followed all the zigzags that the scholar caused the captain to make, who being a more hardened drinker had retained all his self-possession.By listening to them attentively, the man in the mantle could catch in its entirety the following interesting conversation,--
"~Corbacque~!Do try to walk straight, master bachelor; you know that I must leave you.Here it is seven o'clock. I have an appointment with a woman."
"Leave me then!I see stars and lances of fire.You are like the Chateau de Dampmartin, which is bursting with laughter."
"By the warts of my grandmother, Jehan, you are raving with too much rabidness.By the way, Jehan, have you any money left?"
"Monsieur Rector, there is no mistake; the little butcher's shop, ~parva boucheria~."
"Jehau!my friend Jehan!You know that I made an appointment with that little girl at the end of the pont Saint- Michel, and I can only take her to the Falourdel's, the old crone of the bridge, and that I must pay for a chamber.The old witch with a white moustache would not trust me.Jehan! for pity's sake!Have we drunk up the whole of the cur¨¦'s purse?Have you not a single parisis left?"
"The consciousness of having spent the other hours well is a just and savory condiment for the table."
"Belly and guts! a truce to your whimsical nonsense!Tell me, Jehan of the devil! have you any money left?Give it to me, ~b¨¦dieu~!" or I will search you, were you as leprous as Job, and as scabby as Caesar!"
"Monsieur, the Rue Galiache is a street which hath at one end the Rue de la Verrerie, and at the other the Rue de la Tixeranderie."
"Well, yes! my good friend Jehan, my poor comrade, the Rue Galiache is good, very good.But in the name of heaven collect your wits.I must have a sou parisis, and the appointment is for seven o'clock."
"Silence for the rondo, and attention to the refrain,--
"~Quand les rats mangeront les cas, Le roi sera seigneur d'Arras; Quand la mer, qui est grande et le(e Sera a la Saint-Jean gele(e, On verra, par-dessus la glace, Sortir ceux d'Arras de leur place~*."
*When the rats eat the cats, the king will be lord of Arras; when the sea which is great and wide, is frozen over at St. John's tide, men will see across the ice, those who dwell in Arras quit their place.
"Well, scholar of Antichrist, may you be strangled with the entrails of your mother!" exclaimed phoebus, and he gave the drunken scholar a rough push; the latter slipped against the wall, and slid flabbily to the pavement of philip Augustus.A remnant of fraternal pity, which never abandons the heart of a drinker, prompted phoebus to roll Jehan with his foot upon one of those pillows of the poor, which providence keeps in readiness at the corner of all the street posts of paris, and which the rich blight with the name of "a rubbish- heap."The captain adjusted Jehan's head upon an inclined plane of cabbage-stumps, and on the very instant, the scholar fell to snoring in a magnificent bass.Meanwhile, all malice was not extinguished in the captain's heart."So much the worse if the devil's cart picks you up on its passage!" he said to the poor, sleeping clerk; and he strode off.
The man in the mantle, who had not ceased to follow him, halted for a moment before the prostrate scholar, as though agitated by indecision; then, uttering a profound sigh, he also strode off in pursuit of the captain.
We, like them, will leave Jehan to slumber beneath the open sky, and will follow them also, if it pleases the reader.
On emerging into the Rue Saint-Andr¨¦-des-Arcs, Captain phoebus perceived that some one was following him.On glancing sideways by chance, he perceived a sort of shadow crawling after him along the walls.He halted, it halted; he resumed his march, it resumed its march.This disturbed him not overmuch."Ah, bah!" he said to himself, "I have not a sou."
He paused in front of the College d'Autun.It was at this college that he had sketched out what he called his studies, and, through a scholar's teasing habit which still lingered in him, he never passed the fa?ade without inflicting on the statue of Cardinal pierre Bertrand, sculptured to the right of the portal, the affront of which priapus complains so bitterly in the satire of Horace, ~Olim truncus eram ficulnus~.He had done this with so much unrelenting animosity that the inscription, ~Eduensis episcopus~, had become almost effaced. Therefore, he halted before the statue according to his wont. The street was utterly deserted.At the moment when he was coolly retying his shoulder knots, with his nose in the air, he saw the shadow approaching him with slow steps, so slow that he had ample time to observe that this shadow wore a cloak and a hat.On arriving near him, it halted and remained more motionless than the statue of Cardinal Bertrand. Meanwhile, it riveted upon phoebus two intent eyes, full of that vague light which issues in the night time from the pupils of a cat.
The captain was brave, and would have cared very little for a highwayman, with a rapier in his hand.But this walking statue, this petrified man, froze his blood.There were then in circulation, strange stories of a surly monk, a nocturnal prowler about the streets of paris, and they recurred confusedly to his memory.He remained for several minutes in stupefaction, and finally broke the silence with a forced laugh.
"Monsieur, if you are a robber, as I hope you are, you produce upon me the effect of a heron attacking a nutshell.I am the son of a ruined family, my dear fellow.Try your hand near by here.In the chapel of this college there is some wood of the true cross set in silver."
The hand of the shadow emerged from beneath its mantle and descended upon the arm of phoebus with the grip of an eagle's talon; at the same time the shadow spoke,--
"Captain phoebus de Chateaupers!"
What, the devil!" said phoebus, "you know my name!"
"I know not your name alone," continued the man in the mantle, with his sepulchral voice."You have a rendezvous this evening."
"Yes," replied phoebus in amazement.
"At seven o'clock."
"In a quarter of an hour."
"At la Falourdel's."
"precisely."
"The lewd hag of the pont Saint-Michel."
"Of Saint Michel the archangel, as the pater Noster saith."
"Impious wretch!" muttered the spectre."With a woman?"
"~Confiteor~,--I confess--."
"Who is called--?"
"La Smeralda," said phoebus, gayly.All his heedlessness had gradually returned.
At this name, the shadow's grasp shook the arm of phoebus in a fury.
"Captain phoebus de Chateaupers, thou liest!"
Any one who could have beheld at that moment the captain's inflamed countenance, his leap backwards, so violent that he disengaged himself from the grip which held him, the proud air with which he clapped his hand on his swordhilt, and, in the presence of this wrath the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak,--any one who could have beheld this would have been frightened.There was in it a touch of the combat of Don Juan and the statue.
"Christ and Satan!" exclaimed the captain."That is a word which rarely strikes the ear of a Chateaupers!Thou wilt not dare repeat it."
"Thou liest!" said the shadow coldly.
The captain gnashed his teeth.Surly monk, phantom, superstitions,--he had forgotten all at that moment.He no longer beheld anything but a man, and an insult.
"Ah! this is well!" he stammered, in a voice stifled with rage.He drew his sword, then stammering, for anger as well as fear makes a man tremble: "Here!On the spot!Come on!Swords!Swords!Blood on the pavement!"
But the other never stirred.When he beheld his adversary on guard and ready to parry,--
"Captain phoebus," he said, and his tone vibrated with bitterness, "you forget your appointment."
The rages of men like phoebus are milk-soups, whose ebullition is calmed by a drop of cold water.This simple remark caused the sword which glittered in the captain's hand to be lowered.
"Captain," pursued the man, "to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, a month hence, ten years hence, you will find me ready to cut your throat; but go first to your rendezvous."
"In sooth," said phoebus, as though seeking to capitulate with himself, "these are two charming things to be encountered in a rendezvous,--a sword and a wench; but I do not see why I should miss the one for the sake of the other, when I can have both."
He replaced his sword in its scabbard.
"Go to your rendezvous," said the man.
"Monsieur," replied phoebus with some embarrassment, "many thanks for your courtesy.In fact, there will be ample time to-morrow for us to chop up father Adam's doublet into slashes and buttonholes.I am obliged to you for allowing me to pass one more agreeable quarter of an hour.I certainly did hope to put you in the gutter, and still arrive in time for the fair one, especially as it has a better appearance to make the women wait a little in such cases.But you strike me as having the air of a gallant man, and it is safer to defer our affair until to-morrow.So I will betake myself to my rendezvous; it is for seven o'clock, as you know."Here phoebus scratched his ear."Ah.~Corne Dieu~!I had forgotten! I haven't a sou to discharge the price of the garret, and the old crone will insist on being paid in advance.She distrusts me."
"Here is the wherewithal to pay."
phoebus felt the stranger's cold hand slip into his a large piece of money.He could not refrain from taking the money and pressing the hand.
"~Vrai Dieu~!" he exclaimed, "you are a good fellow!"
"One condition," said the man."prove to me that I have been wrong and that you were speaking the truth.Hide me in some corner whence I can see whether this woman is really the one whose name you uttered."
"Oh!" replied phoebus, "'tis all one to me.We will take, the Sainte-Marthe chamber; you can look at your ease from the kennel hard by."
"Come then," said the shadow.
"At your service," said the captain, "I know not whether you are Messer Diavolus in person; but let us be good friends for this evening; to-morrow I will repay you all my debts, both of purse and sword."
They set out again at a rapid pace.At the expiration of a few minutes, the sound of the river announced to them that they were on the pont Saint-Michel, then loaded with houses.
"I will first show you the way," said phoebus to his companion, "I will then go in search of the fair one who is awaiting me near the petit-Chatelet."
His companion made no reply; he had not uttered a word since they had been walking side by side.phoebus halted before a low door, and knocked roughly; a light made its appearance through the cracks of the door.
"Who is there?" cried a toothless voice.
"~Corps-Dieu!T¨ºte-Dieu!Ventre-Dieu~!" replied the captain.
The door opened instantly, and allowed the new-corners to see an old woman and an old lamp, both of which trembled. The old woman was bent double, clad in tatters, with a shaking head, pierced with two small eyes, and coiffed with a dish clout; wrinkled everywhere, on hands and face and neck; her lips retreated under her gums, and about her mouth she had tufts of white hairs which gave her the whiskered look of a cat.
The interior of the den was no less dilapitated than she; there were chalk walls, blackened beams in the ceiling, a dismantled chimney-piece, spiders' webs in all the corners, in the middle a staggering herd of tables and lame stools, a dirty child among the ashes, and at the back a staircase, or rather, a wooden ladder, which ended in a trap door in the ceiling.
On entering this lair, phoebus's mysterious companion raised his mantle to his very eyes.Meanwhile, the captain, swearing like a Saracen, hastened to "make the sun shine in a crown" as saith our admirable R¨¦gnier.
"The Sainte-Marthe chamber," said he.
The old woman addressed him as monseigneur, and shut up the crown in a drawer.It was the coin which the man in the black mantle had given to phoebus.While her back was turned, the bushy-headed and ragged little boy who was playing in the ashes, adroitly approached the drawer, abstracted the crown, and put in its place a dry leaf which he had plucked from a fagot.
The old crone made a sign to the two gentlemen, as she called them, to follow her, and mounted the ladder in advance of them.On arriving at the upper story, she set her lamp on a coffer, and, phoebus, like a frequent visitor of the house, opened a door which opened on a dark hole."Enter here, my dear fellow," he said to his companion.The man in the mantle obeyed without a word in reply, the door closed upon him; he heard phoebus bolt it, and a moment later descend the stairs again with the aged hag.The light had disappeared.

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¡¶BOOK SEVENTH CHAPTER VIII.THE UTILITY OF WINDOWS WHICH OPEN ON THE RIVER.¡·
Claude Frollo (for we presume that the reader, more intelligent than phoebus, has seen in this whole adventure no other surly monk than the archdeacon), Claude Frollo groped about for several moments in the dark lair into which the captain had bolted him.It was one of those nooks which architects sometimes reserve at the point of junction between the roof and the supporting wall.A vertical section of this kennel, as phoebus had so justly styled it, would have made a triangle. Moreover, there was neither window nor air-hole, and the slope of the roof prevented one from standing upright.Accordingly, Claude crouched down in the dust, and the plaster which cracked beneath him; his head was on fire; rummaging around him with his hands, be found on the floor a bit of broken glass, which he pressed to his brow, and whose cool- ness afforded him some relief.
What was taking place at that moment in the gloomy soul of the archdeacon?God and himself could alone know.
In what order was he arranging in his mind la Esmeralda, phoebus, Jacques Charmolue, his young brother so beloved, yet abandoned by him in the mire, his archdeacon's cassock, his reputation perhaps dragged to la Falourdel's, all these adventures, all these images?I cannot say.But it is certain that these ideas formed in his mind a horrible group.
He had been waiting a quarter of an hour; it seemed to him that he had grown a century older.All at once be heard the creaking of the boards of the stairway; some one was ascending.The trapdoor opened once more; a light reappeared. There was a tolerably large crack in the worm-eaten door of his den; he put his face to it.In this manner he could see all that went on in the adjoining room.The cat-faced old crone was the first to emerge from the trap-door, lamp in hand; then phoebus, twirling his moustache, then a third person, that beautiful and graceful figure, la Esmeralda. The priest beheld her rise from below like a dazzling apparition.Claude trembled, a cloud spread over his eyes, his pulses beat violently, everything rustled and whirled around him; he no longer saw nor heard anything.
When he recovered himself, phoebus and Esmeralda were alone seated on the wooden coffer beside the lamp which made these two youthful figures and a miserable pallet at the end of the attic stand out plainly before the archdeacon's eyes.
Beside the pallet was a window, whose panes broken like a spider's web upon which rain has fallen, allowed a view, through its rent meshes, of a corner of the sky, and the moon lying far away on an eiderdown bed of soft clouds.
The young girl was blushing, confused, palpitating.Her long, drooping lashes shaded her crimson cheeks.The officer, to whom she dared not lift her eyes, was radiant.Mechanically, and with a charmingly unconscious gesture, she traced with the tip of her finger incoherent lines on the bench, and watched her finger.Her foot was not visible.The little goat was nestling upon it.
The captain was very gallantly clad; he had tufts of embroidery at his neck and wrists; a great elegance at that day.
It was not without difficulty that Dom Claude managed to hear what they were saying, through the humming of the blood, which was boiling in his temples.
(A conversation between lovers is a very commonplace affair.It is a perpetual "I love you."A musical phrase which is very insipid and very bald for indifferent listeners, when it is not ornamented with some ~fioriture~; but Claude was not an indifferent listener.)
"Oh!" said the young girl, without raising her eyes, "do not despise me, monseigneur phoebus.I feel that what I am doing is not right."
"Despise you, my pretty child!" replied the officer with an air of superior and distinguished gallantry, "despise you, ~t¨ºte-Dieu~! and why?"
"For having followed you!"
"On that point, my beauty, we don't agree.I ought not to despise you, but to hate you."
The young girl looked at him in affright: "Hate me! what have I done?"
"For having required so much urging."
"Alas!" said she, "'tis because I am breaking a vow.I shall not find my parents!The amulet will lose its virtue. But what matters it?What need have I of father or mother now?"
So saying, she fixed upon the captain her great black eyes, moist with joy and tenderness.
"Devil take me if I understand you!" exclaimed phoebus. La Esmeralda remained silent for a moment, then a tear dropped from her eyes, a sigh from her lips, and she said,-- "Oh! monseigneur, I love you."
Such a perfume of chastity, such a charm of virtue surrounded the young girl, that phoebus did not feel completely at his ease beside her.But this remark emboldened him: "You love me!" he said with rapture, and he threw his arm round the gypsy's waist.He had only been waiting for this opportunity.
The priest saw it, and tested with the tip of his finger the point of a poniard which he wore concealed in his breast.
"phoebus," continued the Bohemian, gently releasing her waist from the captain's tenacious hands, "You are good, you are generous, you are handsome; you saved me, me who am only a poor child lost in Bohemia.I had long been dreaming of an officer who should save my life.'Twas of you that I was dreaming, before I knew you, my phoebus; the officer of my dream had a beautiful uniform like yours, a grand look, a sword; your name is phoebus; 'tis a beautiful name.I love your name; I love your sword.Draw your sword, phoebus, that I may see it."
"Child!" said the captain, and he unsheathed his sword with a smile.
The gypsy looked at the hilt, the blade; examined the cipher on the guard with adorable curiosity, and kissed the sword, saying,--
You are the sword of a brave man.I love my captain." phoebus again profited by the opportunity to impress upon her beautiful bent neck a kiss which made the young girl straighten herself up as scarlet as a poppy.The priest gnashed his teeth over it in the dark.
"phoebus," resumed the gypsy, "let me talk to you.pray walk a little, that I may see you at full height, and that I may hear your spurs jingle.How handsome you are!"
The captain rose to please her, chiding her with a smile of satisfaction,--
"What a child you are!By the way, my charmer, have you seen me in my archer's ceremonial doublet?"
"Alas! no," she replied.
"It is very handsome!"
phoebus returned and seated himself beside her, but much closer than before.
"Listen, my dear--"
The gypsy gave him several little taps with her pretty hand on his mouth, with a childish mirth and grace and gayety.
"No, no, I will not listen to you.Do you love me?I want you to tell me whether you love me."
"Do I love thee, angel of my life!" exclaimed the captain, half kneeling."My body, my blood, my soul, all are thine; all are for thee.I love thee, and I have never loved any one but thee."
The captain had repeated this phrase so many times, in many similar conjunctures, that he delivered it all in one breath, without committing a single mistake.At this passionate declaration, the gypsy raised to the dirty ceiling which served for the skies a glance full of angelic happiness.
"Oh!" she murmured, "this is the moment when one should die!"
phoebus found "the moment" favorable for robbing her of another kiss, which went to torture the unhappy archdeacon in his nook."Die!" exclaimed the amorous captain, "What are you saying, my lovely angel?'Tis a time for living, or Jupiter is only a scamp!Die at the beginning of so sweet a thing!~Corne-de-boeuf~, what a jest!It is not that.Listen, my dear Similar, Esmenarda--pardon!you have so prodigiously Saracen a name that I never can get it straight.'Tis a thicket which stops me short."
"Good heavens!" said the poor girl, "and I thought my name pretty because of its singularity!But since it displeases you, I would that I were called Goton."
"Ah! do not weep for such a trifle, my graceful maid! 'tis a name to which one must get accustomed, that is all. When I once know it by heart, all will go smoothly.Listen then, my dear Similar; I adore you passionately.I love you so that 'tis simply miraculous.I know a girl who is bursting with rage over it--"
The jealous girl interrupted him: "Who?"
"What matters that to us?" said phoebus; "do you love me?"
"Oh!"--said she.
"Well! that is all.You shall see how I love you also. May the great devil Neptunus spear me if I do not make you the happiest woman in the world.We will have a pretty little house somewhere.I will make my archers parade before your windows.They are all mounted, and set at defiance those of Captain Mignon.There are ~voulgiers, cranequiniers~ and hand ~couleveiniers~*.I will take you to the great sights of the parisians at the storehouse of Rully. Eighty thousand armed men, thirty thousand white harnesses, short coats or coats of mail; the sixty-seven banners of the trades; the standards of the parliaments, of the chamber of accounts, of the treasury of the generals, of the aides of the mint; a devilish fine array, in short!I will conduct you to see the lions of the H?tel du Roi, which are wild beasts.All women love that."
* Varieties of the crossbow.
For several moments the young girl, absorbed in her charming thoughts, was dreaming to the sound of his voice, without listening to the sense of his words.
"Oh! how happy you will be!" continued the captain, and at the same time he gently unbuckled the gypsy's girdle.
"What are you doing?" she said quickly.This "act of violence" had roused her from her revery.
"Nothing," replied phoebus, "I was only saying that you must abandon all this garb of folly, and the street corner when you are with me."
"When I am with you, phoebus!" said the young girl tenderly.
She became pensive and silent once more.
The captain, emboldened by her gentleness, clasped her waist without resistance; then began softly to unlace the poor child's corsage, and disarranged her tucker to such an extent that the panting priest beheld the gypsy's beautiful shoulder emerge from the gauze, as round and brown as the moon rising through the mists of the horizon.
The young girl allowed phoebus to have his way.She did not appear to perceive it.The eye of the bold captain flashed.
Suddenly she turned towards him,--
"phoebus," she said, with an expression of infinite love, "instruct me in thy religion."
"My religion!" exclaimed the captain, bursting with laughter, "I instruct you in my religion!~Corne et tonnerre~!What do you want with my religion?"
"In order that we may be married," she replied.
The captain's face assumed an expression of mingled surprise and disdain, of carelessness and libertine passion.
"Ah, bah!" said he, "do people marry?"
The Bohemian turned pale, and her head drooped sadly on her breast.
"My beautiful love," resumed phoebus, tenderly, "what nonsense is this?A great thing is marriage, truly!one is none the less loving for not having spit Latin into a priest's shop!"
While speaking thus in his softest voice, he approached extremely near the gypsy; his caressing hands resumed their place around her supple and delicate waist, his eye flashed more and more, and everything announced that Monsieur phoebus was on the verge of one of those moments when Jupiter himself commits so many follies that Homer is obliged to summon a cloud to his rescue.
But Dom Claude saw everything.The door was made of thoroughly rotten cask staves, which left large apertures for the passage of his hawklike gaze.This brown-skinned, broad- shouldered priest, hitherto condemned to the austere virginity of the cloister, was quivering and boiling in the presence of this night scene of love and voluptuousness.This young and beautiful girl given over in disarray to the ardent young man, made melted lead flow in his-veins; his eyes darted with sensual jealousy beneath all those loosened pins.Any one who could, at that moment, have seen the face of the unhappy man glued to the wormeaten bars, would have thought that he beheld the face of a tiger glaring from the depths of a cage at some jackal devouring a gazelle.His eye shone like a candle through the cracks of the door.
All at once, phoebus, with a rapid gesture, removed the gypsy's gorgerette.The poor child, who had remained pale and dreamy, awoke with a start; she recoiled hastily from the enterprising officer, and, casting a glance at her bare neck and shoulders, red, confused, mute with shame, she crossed her two beautiful arms on her breast to conceal it.Had it not been for the flame which burned in her cheeks, at the sight of her so silent and motionless, one would have. declared her a statue of Modesty.Her eyes were lowered.
But the captain's gesture had revealed the mysterious amulet which she wore about her neck.
"What is that?" he said, seizing this pretext to approach once more the beautiful creature whom he had just alarmed.
"Don't touch it!" she replied, quickly, "'tis my guardian. It will make me find my family again, if I remain worthy to do so.Oh, leave me, monsieur le capitaine!My mother! My poor mother!My mother!Where art thou?Come to my rescue!Have pity, Monsieur phoebus, give me back my gorgerette!"
phoebus retreated amid said in a cold tone,--
"Oh, mademoiselle!I see plainly that you do not love me!"
"I do not love him!" exclaimed the unhappy child, and at the same time she clung to the captain, whom she drew to a seat beside her."I do not love thee, my phoebus?What art thou saying, wicked man, to break my heart?Oh, take me! take all! do what you will with me, I am thine.What matters to me the amulet!What matters to me my mother! 'Tis thou who art my mother since I love thee!phoebus, my beloved phoebus, dost thou see me?'Tis I.Look at me; 'tis the little one whom thou wilt surely not repulse, who comes, who comes herself to seek thee.My soul, my life, my body, my person, all is one thing--which is thine, my captain. Well, no!We will not marry, since that displeases thee; and then, what am I? a miserable girl of the gutters; whilst thou, my phoebus, art a gentleman.A fine thing, truly!A dancer wed an officer!I was mad.No, phoebus, no; I will be thy mistress, thy amusement, thy pleasure, when thou wilt; a girl who shall belong to thee.I was only made for that, soiled, despised, dishonored, but what matters it?--beloved. I shall be the proudest and the most joyous of women.And when I grow old or ugly, phoebus, when I am no longer good to love you, you will suffer me to serve you still.Others will embroider scarfs for you; 'tis I, the servant, who will care for them.You will let me polish your spurs, brush your doublet, dust your riding-boots.You will have that pity, will you not, phoebus?Meanwhile, take me! here, phoebus, all this belongs to thee, only love me!We gypsies need only air and love."
So saying, she threw her arms round the officer's neck; she looked up at him, supplicatingly, with a beautiful smile, and all in tears.Her delicate neck rubbed against his cloth doublet with its rough embroideries.She writhed on her knees, her beautiful body half naked.The intoxicated captain pressed his ardent lips to those lovely African shoulders. The young girl, her eyes bent on the ceiling, as she leaned backwards, quivered, all palpitating, beneath this kiss.
All at once, above phoebus's head she beheld another head; a green, livid, convulsed face, with the look of a lost soul; near this face was a hand grasping a poniard.--It was the face and hand of the priest; he had broken the door and he was there.phoebus could not see him.The young girl remained motionless, frozen with terror, dumb, beneath that terrible apparition, like a dove which should raise its head at the moment when the hawk is gazing into her nest with its round eyes.
She could not even utter a cry.She saw the poniard descend upon phoebus, and rise again, reeking.
"Maledictions!" said the captain, and fell.
She fainted.
At the moment when her eyes closed, when all feeling vanished in her, she thought that she felt a touch of fire imprinted upon her lips, a kiss more burning than the red-hot iron of the executioner.
When she recovered her senses, she was surrounded by soldiers of the watch they were carrying away the captain, bathed in his blood the priest had disappeared; the window at the back of the room which opened on the river was wide open; they picked up a cloak which they supposed to belong to the officer and she heard them saying around her,
"'Tis a sorceress who has stabbed a captain."

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER I.THE CROWN CHANGED INTO A DRY LEAF.¡·
Gringoire and the entire Court of Miracles were suffering mortal anxiety.For a whole month they had not known what had become of la Esmeralda, which greatly pained the Duke of Egypt and his friends the vagabonds, nor what had become of the goat, which redoubled Gringoire's grief.One evening the gypsy had disappeared, and since that time had given no signs of life.All search had proved fruitless.Some tormenting bootblacks had told Gringoire about meeting her that same evening near the pont Saint-Michel, going off with an officer; but this husband, after the fashion of Bohemia, was an incredulous philosopher, and besides, he, better than any one else, knew to what a point his wife was virginal.He had been able to form a judgment as to the unconquerable modesty resulting from the combined virtues of the amulet and the gypsy, and he had mathematically calculated the resistance of that chastity to the second power.Accordingly, he was at ease on that score.
Still he could not understand this disappearance.It was a profound sorrow.He would have grown thin over it, had that been possible.He had forgotten everything, even his literary tastes, even his great work, ~De figuris regularibus et irregularibus~, which it was his intention to have printed with the first money which he should procure (for he had raved over printing, ever since he had seen the "Didascalon" of Hugues de Saint Victor, printed with the celebrated characters of Vindelin de Spire).
One day, as he was passing sadly before the criminal Tournelle, he perceived a considerable crowd at one of the gates of the palais de Justice.
"What is this?" he inquired of a young man who was coming out.
"I know not, sir," replied the young man."'Tis said that they are trying a woman who hath assassinated a gendarme. It appears that there is sorcery at the bottom of it, the archbishop and the official have intervened in the case, and my brother, who is the archdeacon of Josas, can think of nothing else.Now, I wished to speak with him, but I have not been able to reach him because of the throng, which vexes me greatly, as I stand in need of money."
"Alas! sir," said Gringoire, "I would that I could lend you some, but, my breeches are worn to holes, and 'tis not crowns which have done it."
He dared not tell the young man that he was acquainted with his brother the archdeacon, to whom he had not returned after the scene in the church; a negligence which embarrassed him.
The scholar went his way, and Gringoire set out to follow the crowd which was mounting the staircase of the great chamber.In his opinion, there was nothing like the spectacle of a criminal process for dissipating melancholy, so exhilaratingly stupid are judges as a rule.The populace which he had joined walked and elbowed in silence.After a slow and tiresome march through a long, gloomy corridor, which wound through the court-house like the intestinal canal of the ancient edifice, he arrived near a low door, opening upon a hall which his lofty stature permitted him to survey with a glance over the waving heads of the rabble.
The hall was vast and gloomy, which latter fact made it appear still more spacious.The day was declining; the long, pointed windows permitted only a pale ray of light to enter, which was extinguished before it reached the vaulted ceiling, an enormous trellis-work of sculptured beams, whose thousand figures seemed to move confusedly in the shadows, many candles were already lighted here and there on tables, and beaming on the heads of clerks buried in masses of documents. The anterior portion of the ball was occupied by the crowd; on the right and left were magistrates and tables; at the end, upon a platform, a number of judges, whose rear rank sank into the shadows, sinister and motionless faces.The walls were sown with innumerable fleurs-de-lis.A large figure of Christ might be vaguely descried above the judges, and everywhere there were pikes and halberds, upon whose points the reflection of the candles placed tips of fire.
"Monsieur," Gringoire inquired of one of his neighbors, "who are all those persons ranged yonder, like prelates in council?"
"Monsieur," replied the neighbor, "those on the right are the counsellors of the grand chamber; those on the left, the councillors of inquiry; the masters in black gowns, the messires in red."
"Who is that big red fellow, yonder above them, who is sweating?" pursued Gringoire.
"It is monsieur the president."
"And those sheep behind him?" continued Gringoire, who as we have seen, did not love the magistracy, which arose, possibly, from the grudge which he cherished against the palais de Justice since his dramatic misadventure.
"They are messieurs the masters of requests of the king's household."
"And that boar in front of him?"
"He is monsieur the clerk of the Court of parliament."
"And that crocodile on the right?"
"Master philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary of the king."
"And that big, black tom-cat on the left?"
"Master Jacques Charmolue, procurator of the king in the Ecclesiastical Court, with the gentlemen of the officialty."
"Come now, monsieur, said Gringoire, "pray what are all those fine fellows doing yonder?"
"They are judging."
"Judging whom?I do not see the accused."
"'Tis a woman, sir.You cannot see her.She has her back turned to us, and she is hidden from us by the crowd. Stay, yonder she is, where you see a group of partisans."
"Who is the woman?" asked Gringoire."Do you know her name?"
"No, monsieur, I have but just arrived.I merely assume that there is some sorcery about it, since the official is present at the trial."
"Come!" said our philosopher, "we are going to see all these magistrates devour human flesh.'Tis as good a spectacle as any other."
"Monsieur," remarked his neighbor, "think you not, that Master Jacques Charmolue has a very sweet air?"
"Hum!" replied Gringoire."I distrust a sweetness which hath pinched nostrils and thin lips."
Here the bystanders imposed silence upon the two chatterers. They were listening to an important deposition.
"Messeigneurs," said an old woman in the middle of the hall, whose form was so concealed beneath her garments that one would have pronounced her a walking heap of rags; "Messeigneurs, the thing is as true as that I am la Falourdel, established these forty years at the pont Saint Michel, and paying regularly my rents, lord's dues, and quit rents; at the gate opposite the house of Tassin-Caillart, the dyer, which is on the side up the river--a poor old woman now, but a pretty maid in former days, my lords.Some one said to me lately, 'La Falourdel, don't use your spinning-wheel too much in the evening; the devil is fond of combing the distaffs of old women with his horns.'Tis certain that the surly monk who was round about the temple last year, now prowls in the City. Take care, La Falourdel, that he doth not knock at your door.' One evening I was spinning on my wheel, there comes a knock at my door; I ask who it is.They swear.I open. Two men enter.A man in black and a handsome officer.Of the black man nothing could be seen but his eyes, two coals of fire.All the rest was hat and cloak.They say to me,--'The Sainte-Marthe chamber.'--'Tis my upper chamber, my lords, my cleanest.They give me a crown.I put the crown in my drawer, and I say: 'This shall go to buy tripe at the slaughter-house of la Gloriette to-morrow.' We go up stairs. On arriving at the upper chamber, and while my back is turned, the black man disappears.That dazed me a bit.The officer, who was as handsome as a great lord, goes down stairs again with me.He goes out.In about the time it takes to spin a quarter of a handful of flax, be returns with a beautiful young girl, a doll who would have shone like the sun had she been coiffed.She had with her a goat; a big billy- goat, whether black or white, I no longer remember.That set me to thinking.The girl does not concern me, but the goat!I love not those beasts, they have a beard and horns. They are so like a man.And then, they smack of the witches, sabbath.However, I say nothing.I had the crown.That is right, is it not, Monsieur Judge?I show the captain and the wench to the upper chamber, and I leave them alone; that is to say, with the goat.I go down and set to spinning again--I must inform you that my house has a ground floor and story above.I know not why I fell to thinking of the surly monk whom the goat had put into my head again, and then the beautiful girl was rather strangely decked out.All at once, I hear a cry upstairs, and something falls on the floor and the window opens.I run to mine which is beneath it, and I behold a black mass pass before my eyes and fall into the water.It was a phantom clad like a priest.It was a moonlight night.I saw him quite plainly.He was swimming in the direction of the city.Then, all of a tremble, I call the watch.The gentlemen of the police enter, and not knowing just at the first moment what the matter was, and being merry, they beat me.I explain to them.We go up stairs, and what do we find? my poor chamber all blood, the captain stretched out at full length with a dagger in his neck, the girl pretending to be dead, and the goat all in a fright. 'pretty work!' I say, 'I shall have to wash that floor for more than a fortnight.It will have to be scraped; it will be a terrible job.'They carried off the officer, poor young man, and the wench with her bosom all bare.But wait, the worst is that on the next day, when I wanted to take the crown to buy tripe, I found a dead leaf in its place."
The old woman ceased.A murmur of horror ran through the audience.
"That phantom, that goat,--all smacks of magic," said one of Gringoire's neighbors.
"And that dry leaf!" added another.
"No doubt about it," joined in a third, "she is a witch who has dealings with the surly monk, for the purpose of plundering officers."
Gringoire himself was not disinclined to regard this as altogether alarming and probable.
"Goody Falourdel," said the president majestically, "have you nothing more to communicate to the court?"
"No, monseigneur," replied the crone, "except that the report has described my house as a hovel and stinking; which is an outrageous fashion of speaking.The houses on the bridge are not imposing, because there are such multitudes of people; but, nevertheless, the butchers continue to dwell there, who are wealthy folk, and married to very proper and handsome women."
The magistrate who had reminded Gringoire of a crocodile rose,--
"Silence!" said he."I pray the gentlemen not to lose sight of the fact that a dagger was found on the person of the accused.Goody Falourdel, have you brought that leaf into which the crown which the demon gave you was transformed?
"Yes, monseigneur," she replied; "I found it again.Here it is."
A bailiff banded the dead leaf to the crocodile, who made a doleful shake of the head, and passed it on to the president, who gave it to the procurator of the king in the ecclesiastical court, and thus it made the circuit of the hail.
"It is a birch leaf," said Master Jacques Charmolue."A fresh proof of magic.
A counsellor took up the word.
"Witness, two men went upstairs together in your house: the black man, whom you first saw disappear and afterwards swimming in the Seine, with his priestly garments, and the officer.Which of the two handed you the crown?" The old woman pondered for a moment and then said,-- "The officer."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Ah!" thought Gringoire," this makes some doubt in my mind."
But Master philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary to the king, interposed once more.
"I will recall to these gentlemen, that in the deposition taken at his bedside, the assassinated officer, while declaring that he had a vague idea when the black man accosted him that the latter might be the surly monk, added that the phantom had pressed him eagerly to go and make acquaintance with the accused; and upon his, the captain's, remarking that he had no money, he had given him the crown which the said officer paid to la Falourdel.Hence, that crown is the money of hell."
This conclusive observation appeared to dissipate all the doubts of Gringoire and the other sceptics in the audience.
"You have the documents, gentlemen," added the king's advocate, as he took his seat; "you can consult the testimony of phoebus de Chateaupers."
At that name, the accused sprang up, her head rose above the throng.Gringoire with horror recognized la Esmeralda.
She was pale; her tresses, formerly so gracefully braided and spangled with sequins, hung in disorder; her lips were blue, her hollow eyes were terrible.Alas!
"phoebus!" she said, in bewilderment; "where is he?O messeigneurs! before you kill me, tell me, for pity sake, whether he still lives?"
"Hold your tongue, woman," replied the president, "that is no affair of ours."
"Oh!for mercy's sake, tell me if he is alive!" she repeated, clasping her beautiful emaciated hands; and the sound of her chains in contact with her dress, was heard.
"Well!" said the king's advocate roughly, "he is dying. Are you satisfied?"
The unhappy girl fell back on her criminal's seat, speechless, tearless, white as a wax figure.
The president bent down to a man at his feet, who wore a gold cap and a black gown, a chain on his neck and a wand in his hand.
"Bailiff, bring in the second accused."
All eyes turned towards a small door, which opened, and, to the great agitation of Gringoire, gave passage to a pretty goat with horns and hoofs of gold.The elegant beast halted for a moment on the threshold, stretching out its neck as though, perched on the summit of a rock, it had before its eyes an immense horizon.Suddenly it caught sight of the gypsy girl, and leaping over the table and the head of a clerk, in two bounds it was at her knees; then it rolled gracefully on its mistress's feet, soliciting a word or a caress; but the accused remained motionless, and poor Djali himself obtained not a glance.
"Eh, why--'tis my villanous beast," said old Falourdel, "I recognize the two perfectly!"
Jacques Charmolue interfered.
"If the gentlemen please, we will proceed to the examination of the goat." He was, in fact, the second criminal. Nothing more simple in those days than a suit of sorcery instituted against an animal.We find, among others in the accounts of the provost's office for 1466, a curious detail concerning the expenses of the trial of Gillet-Soulart and his sow, "executed for their demerits," at Corbeil.Everything is there, the cost of the pens in which to place the sow, the five hundred bundles of brushwood purchased at the port of Morsant, the three pints of wine and the bread, the last repast of the victim fraternally shared by the executioner, down to the eleven days of guard and food for the sow, at eight deniers parisis each.Sometimes, they went even further than animals. The capitularies of Charlemagne and of Louis le D¨¦bonnaire impose severe penalties on fiery phantoms which presume to appear in the air.
Meanwhile the procurator had exclaimed: "If the demon which possesses this goat, and which has resisted all exorcisms, persists in its deeds of witchcraft, if it alarms the court with them, we warn it that we shall be forced to put in requisition against it the gallows or the stake. Gringoire broke out into a cold perspiration.Charmolue took from the table the gypsy's tambourine, and presenting it to the goat, in a certain manner, asked the latter,--
"What o'clock is it?"
The goat looked at it with an intelligent eye, raised its gilded hoof, and struck seven blows.
It was, in fact, seven o'clock.A movement of terror ran through the crowd.
Gringoire could not endure it.
"He is destroying himself!" he cried aloud; "You see well that he does not know what he is doing."
"Silence among the louts at the end of the hail!" said the bailiff sharply.
Jacques Charmolue, by the aid of the same manoeuvres of the tambourine, made the goat perform many other tricks connected with the date of the day, the month of the year, etc., which the reader has already witnessed.And, by virtue of an optical illusion peculiar to judicial proceedings, these same spectators who had, probably, more than once applauded in the public square Djali's innocent magic were terrified by it beneath the roof of the palais de Justice.The goat was undoubtedly the devil.
It was far worse when the procurator of the king, having emptied upon a floor a certain bag filled with movable letters, which Djali wore round his neck, they beheld the goat extract with his hoof from the scattered alphabet the fatal name of phoebus.The witchcraft of which the captain had been the victim appeared irresistibly demonstrated, and in the eyes of all, the gypsy, that ravishing dancer, who had so often dazzled the passers-by with her grace, was no longer anything but a frightful vampire.
However, she betrayed no sign of life; neither Djali's graceful evolutions, nor the menaces of the court, nor the suppressed imprecations of the spectators any longer reached her mind.
In order to arouse her, a police officer was obliged to shake her unmercifully, and the president had to raise his voice,--"Girl, you are of the Bohemian race, addicted to deeds of witchcraft.You, in complicity with the bewitched goat implicated in this suit, during the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and stabbed, in concert with the powers of darkness, by the aid of charms and underhand practices, a captain of the king's arches of the watch, phoebus de Chateaupers.Do you persist in denying it?"
"Horror!" exclaimed the young girl, hiding her face in her hands."My phoebus!Oh, this is hell!"
"Do you persist in your denial?" demanded the president coldly.
"Do I deny it?" she said with terrible accents; and she rose with flashing eyes.
The president continued squarely,--
"Then how do you explain the facts laid to your charge?"
She replied in a broken voice,--
"I have already told you.I do not know.'Twas a priest, a priest whom I do not know; an infernal priest who pursues me!"
"That is it," retorted the judge; "the surly monk."
"Oh, gentlemen!have mercy!I am but a poor girl--"
"Of Egypt," said the judge.
Master Jacques Charmolue interposed sweetly,--
"In view of the sad obstinacy of the accused, I demand the application of the torture."
"Granted," said the president.
The unhappy girl quivered in every limb.But she rose at the command of the men with partisans, and walked with a tolerably firm step, preceded by Charmolue and the priests of the officiality, between two rows of halberds, towards a medium-sized door which suddenly opened and closed again behind her, and which produced upon the grief-stricken Gringoire the effect of a horrible mouth which had just devoured her.
When she disappeared, they heard a plaintive bleating; it was the little goat mourning.
The sitting of the court was suspended.A counsellor having remarked that the gentlemen were fatigued, and that it would be a long time to wait until the torture was at an end, the president replied that a magistrate must know how to sacrifice himself to his duty.
"What an annoying and vexatious hussy," said an aged judge, "to get herself put to the question when one has not supped!"

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER II.CONTINUATION OF THE CROWN WHICH WAS CHANGED INTO A DRY LEAF.¡·
After ascending and descending several steps in the corridors, which were so dark that they were lighted by lamps at mid-day, La Esmeralda, still surrounded by her lugubrious escort, was thrust by the police into a gloomy chamber. This chamber, circular in form, occupied the ground floor of one of those great towers, which, even in our own century, still pierce through the layer of modern edifices with which modern paris has covered ancient paris.There were no windows to this cellar; no other opening than the entrance, which was low, and closed by an enormous iron door.Nevertheless, light was not lacking; a furnace had been constructed in the thickness of the wall; a large fire was lighted there, which filled the vault with its crimson reflections and deprived a miserable candle, which stood in one corner, of all radiance.The iron grating which served to close the oven, being raised at that moment, allowed only a view at the mouth of the flaming vent-hole in the dark wall, the lower extremity of its bars, like a row of black and pointed teeth, set flat apart; which made the furnace resemble one of those mouths of dragons which spout forth flames in ancient legends.By the light which escaped from it, the prisoner beheld, all about the room, frightful instruments whose use she did not understand.In the centre lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap provided with a buckle, attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large ploughshares, filled the interior of the furnace, and glowed in a confused heap on the coals.The sanguine light of the furnace illuminated in the chamber only a confused mass of horrible things.
This Tartarus was called simply, The Question Chamber.
On the bed, in a negligent attitude, sat pierrat Torterue, the official torturer.His underlings, two gnomes with square faces, leather aprons, and linen breeches, were moving the iron instruments on the coals.
In vain did the poor girl summon up her courage; on entering this chamber she was stricken with horror.
The sergeants of the bailiff of the courts drew up in line on one side, the priests of the officiality on the other.A clerk, inkhorn, and a table were in one corner.
Master Jacques Charmolue approached the gypsy with a very sweet smile.
"My dear child," said he, "do you still persist in your denial?"
"Yes," she replied, in a dying voice.
"In that case," replied Charmolue, "it will be very painful for us to have to question you more urgently than we should like.pray take the trouble to seat yourself on this bed. Master pierrat, make room for mademoiselle, and close the door."
pierrat rose with a growl.
"If I shut the door," he muttered, "my fire will go out."
"Well, my dear fellow," replied Charmolue, "leave it open then."
Meanwhile, la Esmeralda had remained standing.That leather bed on which so many unhappy wretches had writhed, frightened her.Terror chilled the very marrow of her bones; she stood there bewildered and stupefied.At a sign from Charmolue, the two assistants took her and placed her in a sitting posture on the bed.They did her no harm; but when these men touched her, when that leather touched her, she felt all her blood retreat to her heart.She cast a frightened look around the chamber.It seemed to her as though she beheld advancing from all quarters towards her, with the intention of crawling up her body and biting and pinching her, all those hideous implements of torture, which as compared to the instruments of all sorts she had hitherto seen, were like what bats, centipedes, and spiders are among insects and birds.
"Where is the physician?" asked Charmolue.
"Here," replied a black gown whom she had not before noticed.
She shuddered.
"Mademoiselle," resumed the caressing voice of the procucrator of the Ecclesiastical court, "for the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?"
This time she could only make a sign with her head.
"You persist?" said Jacques Charmolue."Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office."
"Monsieur le procureur du Roi," said pierrat abruptly, "How shall we begin?"
Charmolue hesitated for a moment with the ambiguous grimace of a poet in search of a rhyme.
"With the boot," he said at last.
The unfortunate girl felt herself so utterly abandoned by God and men, that her head fell upon her breast like an inert thing which has no power in itself.
The tormentor and the physician approached her simultaneously. At the same time, the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.
At the clanking of their frightful irons, the unhappy child quivered like a dead frog which is being galvanized."Oh!" she murmured, so low that no one heard her; "Oh, my phoebus!" Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence.This spectacle would have rent any other heart than those of her judges.One would have pronounced her a poor sinful soul, being tortured by Satan beneath the scarlet wicket of hell.The miserable body which that frightful swarm of saws, wheels, and racks were about to clasp in their clutches, the being who was about to be manipulated by the harsh hands of executioners and pincers, was that gentle, white, fragile creature, a poor grain of millet which human justice was handing over to the terrible mills of torture to grind.Meanwhile, the callous hands of pierrat Torterue's assistants had bared that charming leg, that tiny foot, which had so often amazed the passers-by with their delicacy and beauty, in the squares of paris.
"'Tis a shame!" muttered the tormentor, glancing at these graceful and delicate forms.
Had the archdeacon been present, he certainly would have recalled at that moment his symbol of the spider and the fly. Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach; she soon beheld her foot encased between iron plates disappear in the frightful apparatus. Then terror restored her strength.
"Take that off!" she cried angrily; and drawing herself up, with her hair all dishevelled: "Mercy!"
She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the king's procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron, and she sank down upon the boot, more crushed than a bee with a lump of lead on its wing.
At a sign from Charmolue, she was replaced on the bed, and two coarse hands adjusted to her delicate waist the strap which hung from the ceiling.
"For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case?" demanded Charmolue, with his imperturbable benignity.
"I am innocent."
"Then, mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge?"
"Alas, monseigneur, I do not know."
"So you deny them?"
"All!"
"proceed," said Charmolue to pierrat.
pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered one of those horrible cries which have no orthography in any human language.
"Stop!" said Charmolue to pierrat."Do you confess?" he said to the gypsy.
"All!" cried the wretched girl."I confess!I confess! Mercy!"
She had not calculated her strength when she faced the torture.poor child, whose life up to that time had been so joyous, so pleasant, so sweet, the first pain had conquered her!
"Humanity forces me to tell you," remarked the king's procurator, "that in confessing, it is death that you must expect."
"I certainly hope so!" said she.And she fell back upon the leather bed, dying, doubled up, allowing herself to hang suspended from the strap buckled round her waist.
"Come, fair one, hold up a little," said Master pierrat, raising her."You have the air of the lamb of the Golden Fleece which hangs from Monsieur de Bourgogne's neck."
Jacques Charmolue raised his voice,
"Clerk, write.Young Bohemian maid, you confess your participation in the feasts, witches' sabbaths, and witchcrafts of hell, with ghosts, hags, and vampires?Answer."
"Yes," she said, so low that her words were lost in her breathing.
"You confess to having seen the ram which Beelzebub causes to appear in the clouds to call together the witches' sabbath, and which is beheld by socerers alone?"
"Yes."
"You confess to having adored the heads of Bophomet, those abominable idols of the Templars?"
"Yes."
"To having had habitual dealings with the devil under the form of a goat familiar, joined with you in the suit?"
"Yes."
"Lastly, you avow and confess to having, with the aid of the demon, and of the phantom vulgarly known as the surly monk, on the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and assassinated a captain named phoebus de Chateaupers?"
She raised her large, staring eyes to the magistrate, and replied, as though mechanically, without convulsion or agitation,--
"Yes."
It was evident that everything within her was broken.
"Write, clerk," said Charmolue.And, addressing the torturers, "Release the prisoner, and take her back to the court."
When the prisoner had been "unbooted," the procurator of the ecclesiastical court examined her foot, which was still swollen with pain."Come," said he, "there's no great harm done.You shrieked in good season.You could still dance, my beauty!"
Then he turned to his acolytes of the officiality,-- "Behold justice enlightened at last!This is a solace, gentlemen!Madamoiselle will bear us witness that we have acted with all possible gentleness."

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER III.END OF THE CROWN WHICH WAS TURNED INTO A DRY LEAF.¡·
When she re-entered the audience hall, pale and limping, she was received with a general murmur of pleasure.On the part of the audience there was the feeling of impatience gratified which one experiences at the theatre at the end of the last entr'acte of the comedy, when the curtain rises and the conclusion is about to begin.On the part of the judges, it was the hope of getting their suppers sooner.
The little goat also bleated with joy.He tried to run towards his mistress, but they had tied him to the bench.
Night was fully set in.The candles, whose number had not been increased, cast so little light, that the walls of the hall could not be seen.The shadows there enveloped all objects in a sort of mist.A few apathetic faces of judges alone could be dimly discerned.Opposite them, at the extremity of the long hail, they could see a vaguely white point standing out against the sombre background.This was the accused.
She had dragged herself to her place.When Charmolue had installed himself in a magisterial manner in his own, he seated himself, then rose and said, without exhibiting too much self-complacency at his success,--"The accused has confessed all."
"Bohemian girl," the president continued, "have you avowed all your deeds of magic, prostitution, and assassination on phoebus de Chateaupers."
Her heart contracted.She was heard to sob amid the darkness.
"Anything you like," she replied feebly, "but kill me quickly!"
"Monsieur, procurator of the king in the ecclesiastical courts," said the president, "the chamber is ready to hear you in your charge."
Master Charmolue exhibited an alarming note book, and began to read, with many gestures and the exaggerated accentuation of the pleader, an oration in Latin, wherein all the proofs of the suit were piled up in Ciceronian periphrases, flanked with quotations from plautus, his favorite comic author.We regret that we are not able to offer to our readers this remarkable piece.The orator pronounced it with marvellous action.Before he had finished the exordium, the perspiration was starting from his brow, and his eyes from his bead.
All at once, in the middle of a fine period, he interrupted himself, and his glance, ordinarily so gentle and even stupid, became menacing.
"Gentlemen," he exclaimed (this time in French, for it was not in his copy book), "Satan is so mixed up in this affair, that here he is present at our debates, and making sport of their majesty.Behold!"
So saying, he pointed to the little goat, who, on seeing Charmolue gesticulating, had, in point of fact, thought it appropriate to do the same, and had seated himself on his haunches, reproducing to the best of his ability, with his forepaws and his bearded head the pathetic pantomine of the king's procurator in the ecclesiastical court.This was, if the reader remembers, one of his prettiest accomplishments.This incident, this last proof, produced a great effect.The goat's hoofs were tied, and the king's procurator resumed the thread of his eloquence.
It was very long, but the peroration was admirable.Here is the concluding phrase; let the reader add the hoarse voice and the breathless gestures of Master Charmolue,
"~Ideo, domni, coram stryga demonstrata, crimine patente, intentione criminis existente, in nornine sanctoe ecclesioe Nostroe- Domince parisiensis quoe est in saisina habendi omnimodam altam et bassam justitiam in illa hac intemerata Civitatis insula, tenore proesentium declaremus nos requirere, primo, aliquamdam pecuniariam indemnitatem; secundo, amendationem honorabilem ante portalium maximum Nostroe-Dominoe, ecclesioe cathedralis; tertio, sententiani in virtute cujus ista styrga cum sua capella, seu in trivio vulgariter dicto~ la Gr¨¨ve, ~seu in insula exeunte in fluvio Secanoe, juxta pointam juardini regalis, executatoe sint~!"*
* The substance of this exordium is contained in the president's sentence.
He put on his cap again and seated himself.
"Eheu!" sighed the broken-hearted Gringoire, "~bassa latinitas~--bastard latin!"
Another man in a black gown rose near the accused; he was her lawyer.--The judges, who were fasting, began to grumble.
"Advocate, be brief," said the president.
"Monsieur the president," replied the advocate, "since the defendant has confessed the crime, I have only one word to say to these gentlemen.Here is a text from the Salic law; 'If a witch hath eaten a man, and if she be convicted of it, she shall pay a fine of eight thousand deniers, which amount to two hundred sous of gold.' May it please the chamber to condemn my client to the fine?"
"An abrogated text," said the advocate extraordinary of the king.
"Nego, I deny it," replied the advocate.
"put it to the vote!" said one of the councillors; "the crime is manifest, and it is late."
They proceeded to take a vote without leaving the room. The judges signified their assent without giving their reasons, they were in a hurry.Their capped heads were seen uncovering one after the other, in the gloom, at the lugubrious question addressed to them by the president in a low voice.The poor accused had the appearance of looking at them, but her troubled eye no longer saw.
Then the clerk began to write; then he handed a long parch- ment to the president.
Then the unhappy girl heard the people moving, the pikes clashing, and a freezing voice saying to her,--"Bohemian wench, on the day when it shall seem good to our lord the king, at the hour of noon, you will be taken in a tumbrel, in your shift, with bare feet, and a rope about your neck, before the grand portal of Notre-Dame, and you will there make an apology with a wax torch of the weight of two pounds in your hand, and thence you will be conducted to the place de Gr¨¨ve, where you will be hanged and strangled on the town gibbet; and likewise your goat; and you will pay to the official three lions of gold, in reparation of the crimes by you committed and by you confessed, of sorcery and magic, debauchery and murder, upon the person of the Sieur phoebus de Chateaupers.May God have mercy on your soul!"
"Oh!'tis a dream!" she murmured; and she felt rough hands bearing her away.

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER IV.~LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA~--LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE WHO ENTER HERE. Page 1¡·
In the Middle Ages, when an edifice was complete, there was almost as much of it in the earth as above it.Unless built upon piles, like Notre-Dame, a palace, a fortress, a church, had always a double bottom.In cathedrals, it was, in some sort, another subterranean cathedral, low, dark, mysterious, blind, and mute, under the upper nave which was overflowing with light and reverberating with organs and bells day and night.Sometimes it was a sepulchre.In palaces, in fortresses, it was a prison, sometimes a sepulchre also, sometimes both together.These mighty buildings, whose mode of formation and vegetation we have elsewhere explained, had not simply foundations, but, so to speak, roots which ran branching through the soil in chambers, galleries, and staircases, like the construction above.Thus churches, palaces, fortresses, had the earth half way up their bodies. The cellars of an edifice formed another edifice, into which one descended instead of ascending, and which extended its subterranean grounds under the external piles of the monument, like those forests and mountains which are reversed in the mirror-like waters of a lake, beneath the forests and mountains of the banks.
At the fortress of Saint-Antoine, at the palais de Justice of paris, at the Louvre, these subterranean edifices were prisons. The stories of these prisons, as they sank into the soil, grew constantly narrower and more gloomy.They were so many zones, where the shades of horror were graduated.Dante could never imagine anything better for his hell.These tunnels of cells usually terminated in a sack of a lowest dungeon, with a vat-like bottom, where Dante placed Satan, where society placed those condemned to death.A miserable human existence, once interred there; farewell light, air, life, ~ogni speranza~--every hope; it only came forth to the scaffold or the stake.Sometimes it rotted there; human justice called this "forgetting."Between men and himself, the condemned man felt a pile of stones and jailers weighing down upon his head; and the entire prison, the massive bastille was nothing more than an enormous, complicated lock, which barred him off from the rest of the world.
It was in a sloping cavity of this description, in the ~oubliettes~ excavated by Saint-Louis, in the ~inpace~ of the Tournelle, that la Esmeralda had been placed on being condemned to death, through fear of her escape, no doubt, with the colossal court-house over her head.poor fly, who could not have lifted even one of its blocks of stone!
Assuredly, providence and society had been equally unjust; such an excess of unhappiness and of torture was not necessary to break so frail a creature.
There she lay, lost in the shadows, buried, hidden, immured. Any one who could have beheld her in this state, after having seen her laugh and dance in the sun, would have shuddered. Cold as night, cold as death, not a breath of air in her tresses, not a human sound in her ear, no longer a ray of light in her eyes; snapped in twain, crushed with chains, crouching beside a jug and a loaf, on a little straw, in a pool of water, which was formed under her by the sweating of the prison walls; without motion, almost without breath, she had no longer the power to suffer; phoebus, the sun, midday, the open air, the streets of paris, the dances with applause, the sweet babblings of love with the officer; then the priest, the old crone, the poignard, the blood, the torture, the gibbet; all this did, indeed, pass before her mind, sometimes as a charming and golden vision, sometimes as a hideous nightmare; but it was no longer anything but a vague and horrible struggle, lost in the gloom, or distant music played up above ground, and which was no longer audible at the depth where the unhappy girl had fallen.
Since she had been there, she had neither waked nor slept. In that misfortune, in that cell, she could no longer distinguish her waking hours from slumber, dreams from reality, any more than day from night.All this was mixed, broken, floating, disseminated confusedly in her thought.She no longer felt, she no longer knew, she no longer thought; at the most, she only dreamed.Never had a living creature been thrust more deeply into nothingness.
Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, she had barely noticed on two or three occasions, the sound of a trap door opening somewhere above her, without even permitting the passage of a little light, and through which a hand had tossed her a bit of black bread.Nevertheless, this periodical visit of the jailer was the sole communication which was left her with mankind.
A single thing still mechanically occupied her ear; above her head, the dampness was filtering through the mouldy stones of the vault, and a drop of water dropped from them at regular intervals.She listened stupidly to the noise made by this drop of water as it fell into the pool beside her.
This drop of water falling from time to time into that pool, was the only movement which still went on around her, the only clock which marked the time, the only noise which reached her of all the noise made on the surface of the earth.
To tell the whole, however, she also felt, from time to time, in that cesspool of mire and darkness, something cold passing over her foot or her arm, and she shuddered.
How long had she been there?She did not know.She had a recollection of a sentence of death pronounced somewhere, against some one, then of having been herself carried away, and of waking up in darkness and silence, chilled to the heart.She had dragged herself along on her hands. Then iron rings that cut her ankles, and chains had rattled. She had recognized the fact that all around her was wall, that below her there was a pavement covered with moisture and a truss of straw; but neither lamp nor air-hole.Then she had seated herself on that straw and, sometimes, for the sake of changing her attitude, on the last stone step in her dungeon. For a while she had tried to count the black minutes measured off for her by the drop of water; but that melancholy labor of an ailing brain had broken off of itself in her head, and had left her in stupor.
At length, one day, or one night, (for midnight and midday were of the same color in that sepulchre), she heard above her a louder noise than was usually made by the turnkey when he brought her bread and jug of water.She raised her head, and beheld a ray of reddish light passing through the crevices in the sort of trapdoor contrived in the roof of the ~inpace~.
At the same time, the heavy lock creaked, the trap grated on its rusty hinges, turned, and she beheld a lantern, a hand, and the lower portions of the bodies of two men, the door being too low to admit of her seeing their heads.The light pained her so acutely that she shut her eyes.
When she opened them again the door was closed, the lantern was deposited on one of the steps of the staircase; a man alone stood before her.A monk's black cloak fell to his feet, a cowl of the same color concealed his face.Nothing was visible of his person, neither face nor hands.It was a long, black shroud standing erect, and beneath which something could be felt moving.She gazed fixedly for several minutes at this sort of spectre.But neither he nor she spoke.One would have pronounced them two statues confronting each other.Two things only seemed alive in that cavern; the wick of the lantern, which sputtered on account of the dampness of the atmosphere, and the drop of water from the roof, which cut this irregular sputtering with its monotonous splash, and made the light of the lantern quiver in concentric waves on the oily water of the pool.
At last the prisoner broke the silence.
"Who are you?"
"A priest."
The words, the accent, the sound of his voice made her tremble.
The priest continued, in a hollow voice,--
"Are you prepared?"
"For what?"
"To die."
"Oh!" said she, "will it be soon?"
"To-morrow."
Her head, which had been raised with joy, fell back upon her breast.
"'Tis very far away yet!" she murmured; "why could they not have done it to-day?"
"Then you are very unhappy?" asked the priest, after a silence.
"I am very cold," she replied.
She took her feet in her hands, a gesture habitual with unhappy wretches who are cold, as we have already seen in the case of the recluse of the Tour-Roland, and her teeth chattered.
The priest appeared to cast his eyes around the dungeon from beneath his cowl.
"Without light!without fire!in the water!it is horrible!"
"Yes," she replied, with the bewildered air which unhappiness had given her."The day belongs to every one, why do they give me only night?"
"Do you know," resumed the priest, after a fresh silence, "why you are here?"
"I thought I knew once," she said, passing her thin fingers over her eyelids, as though to aid her memory, "but I know no longer."
All at once she began to weep like a child.
"I should like to get away from here, sir.I am cold, I am afraid, and there are creatures which crawl over my body."
"Well, follow me."
So saying, the priest took her arm.The unhappy girl was frozen to her very soul.Yet that hand produced an impression of cold upon her.
"Oh!" she murmured, "'tis the icy hand of death.Who are you?"
The priest threw back his cowl; she looked.It was the sinister visage which had so long pursued her; that demon's head which had appeared at la Falourdel's, above the head of her adored phoebus; that eye which she last had seen glittering beside a dagger.
This apparition, always so fatal for her, and which had thus driven her on from misfortune to misfortune, even to torture, roused her from her stupor.It seemed to her that the sort of veil which had lain thick upon her memory was rent away. All the details of her melancholy adventure, from the nocturnal scene at la Falourdel's to her condemnation to the Tournelle, recurred to her memory, no longer vague and confused as heretofore, but distinct, harsh, clear, palpitating, terrible. These souvenirs, half effaced and almost obliterated by excess of suffering, were revived by the sombre figure which stood before her, as the approach of fire causes letters traced upon white paper with invisible ink, to start out perfectly fresh.It seemed to her that all the wounds of her heart opened and bled simultaneously.
"Hah!" she cried, with her hands on her eyes, and a convulsive trembling, "'tis the priest!"
Then she dropped her arms in discouragement, and remained seated, with lowered head, eyes fixed on the ground, mute and still trembling.
The priest gazed at her with the eye of a hawk which has long been soaring in a circle from the heights of heaven over a poor lark cowering in the wheat, and has long been silently contracting the formidable circles of his flight, and has suddenly swooped down upon his prey like a flash of lightning, and holds it panting in his talons.
She began to murmur in a low voice,--
"Finish! finish! the last blow!" and she drew her head down in terror between her shoulders, like the lamb awaiting the blow of the butcher's axe.
"So I inspire you with horror?" he said at length.
She made no reply.
"Do I inspire you with horror?" he repeated.
Her lips contracted, as though with a smile.
"Yes," said she, "the headsman scoffs at the condemned. Here he has been pursuing me, threatening me, terrifying me for months!Had it not been for him, my God, how happy it should have been!It was he who cast me into this abyss! Oh heavens!it was he who killed him!my phoebus!"
Here, bursting into sobs, and raising her eyes to the priest,--
"Oh! wretch, who are you?What have I done to you? Do you then, hate me so?Alas! what have you against me?"
"I love thee!" cried the priest.
Her tears suddenly ceased, she gazed at him with the look of an idiot.He had fallen on his knees and was devouring her with eyes of flame.
"Dost thou understand?I love thee!" he cried again.
"What love!" said the unhappy girl with a shudder.
He resumed,--
"The love of a damned soul."
Both remained silent for several minutes, crushed beneath the weight of their emotions; he maddened, she stupefied.
"Listen," said the priest at last, and a singular calm had come over him; "you shall know all I am about to tell you that which I have hitherto hardly dared to say to myself, when furtively interrogating my conscience at those deep hours of the night when it is so dark that it seems as though God no longer saw us.Listen.Before I knew you, young girl, I was happy."
"So was I!" she sighed feebly.
"Do not interrupt me.Yes, I was happy, at least I believed myself to be so.I was pure, my soul was filled with limpid light.No head was raised more proudly and more radiantly than mine.priests consulted me on chastity; doctors, on doctrines.Yes, science was all in all to me; it was a sister to me, and a sister sufficed.Not but that with age other ideas came to me.More than once my flesh had been moved as a woman's form passed by.That force of sex and blood which, in the madness of youth, I had imagined that I had stifled forever had, more than once, convulsively raised the chain of iron vows which bind me, a miserable wretch, to the cold stones of the altar.But fasting, prayer, study, the mortifications of the cloister, rendered my soul mistress of my body once more, and then I avoided women.Moreover, I had but to open a book, and all the impure mists of my brain vanished before the splendors of science.In a few moments, I felt the gross things of earth flee far away, and I found myself once more calm, quieted, and serene, in the presence of the tranquil radiance of eternal truth.As long as the demon sent to attack me only vague shadows of women who passed occasionally before my eyes in church, in the streets, in the fields, and who hardly recurred to my dreams, I easily vanquished him.Alas!if the victory has not remained with me, it is the fault of God, who has not created man and the demon of equal force.Listen.One day--
Here the priest paused, and the prisoner heard sighs of anguish break from his breast with a sound of the death rattle.
He resumed,--
"One day I was leaning on the window of my cell.What book was I reading then?Oh! all that is a whirlwind in my head.I was reading.The window opened upon a Square.I heard a sound of tambourine and music.Annoyed at being thus disturbed in my revery, I glanced into the Square.What I beheld, others saw beside myself, and yet it was not a spectacle made for human eyes.There, in the middle of the pavement,--it was midday, the sun was shining brightly,--a creature was dancing.A creature so beautiful that God would have preferred her to the Virgin and have chosen her for his mother and have wished to be born of her if she had been in existence when he was made man!Her eyes were black and splendid; in the midst of her black locks, some hairs through which the sun shone glistened like threads of gold.Her feet disappeared in their movements like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel.Around her head, in her black tresses, there were disks of metal, which glittered in the sun, and formed a coronet of stars on her brow.Her dress thick set with spangles, blue, and dotted with a thousand sparks, gleamed like a summer night.Her brown, supple arms twined and untwined around her waist, like two scarfs.The form of her body was surprisingly beautiful. Oh! what a resplendent figure stood out, like something luminous even in the sunlight!Alas, young girl, it was thou! Surprised, intoxicated, charmed, I allowed myself to gaze upon thee.I looked so long that I suddenly shuddered with terror; I felt that fate was seizing hold of me."
The priest paused for a moment, overcome with emotion. Then he continued,--
"Already half fascinated, I tried to cling fast to something and hold myself back from falling.I recalled the snares which Satan had already set for me.The creature before my eyes possessed that superhuman beauty which can come only from heaven or hell.It was no simple girl made with a little of our earth, and dimly lighted within by the vacillating ray of a woman's soul.It was an angel! but of shadows and flame, and not of light.At the moment when I was meditating thus, I beheld beside you a goat, a beast of witches, which smiled as it gazed at me.The midday sun gave him golden horns.Then I perceived the snare of the demon, and I no longer doubted that you had come from hell and that you had come thence for my perdition.I believed it."
Here the priest looked the prisoner full in the face, and added, coldly,--
"I believe it still.Nevertheless, the charm operated little by little; your dancing whirled through my brain; I felt the mysterious spell working within me.All that should have awakened was lulled to sleep; and like those who die in the snow, I felt pleasure in allowing this sleep to draw on.All at once, you began to sing.What could I do, unhappy wretch?Your song was still more charming than your dancing. I tried to flee.Impossible.I was nailed, rooted to the spot.It seemed to me that the marble of the pavement had risen to my knees.I was forced to remain until the end. My feet were like ice, my head was on fire.At last you took pity on me, you ceased to sing, you disappeared.The reflection of the dazzling vision, the reverberation of the enchanting music disappeared by degrees from my eyes and my ears. Then I fell back into the embrasure of the window, more rigid, more feeble than a statue torn from its base.The vesper bell roused me.I drew myself up; I fled; but alas! something within me had fallen never to rise again, something had come upon me from which I could not flee."
He made another pause and went on,--
"Yes, dating from that day, there was within me a man whom I did not know.I tried to make use of all my remedies. The cloister, the altar, work, books,--follies!Oh, how hollow does science sound when one in despair dashes against it a head full of passions!Do you know, young girl, what I saw thenceforth between my book and me?You, your shade, the image of the luminous apparition which had one day crossed the space before me.But this image had no longer the same color; it was sombre, funereal, gloomy as the black circle which long pursues the vision of the imprudent man who has gazed intently at the sun.
"Unable to rid myself of it, since I heard your song humming ever in my head, beheld your feet dancing always on my breviary, felt even at night, in my dreams, your form in contact with my own, I desired to see you again, to touch you, to know who you were, to see whether I should really find you like the ideal image which I had retained of you, to shatter my dream, perchance, with reality.At all events, I hoped that a new impression would efface the first, and the first had become insupportable.I sought you.I saw you once more.Calamity!When I had seen you twice, I wanted to see you a thousand times, I wanted to see you always. Then--how stop myself on that slope of hell?--then I no longer belonged to myself.The other end of the thread which the demon had attached to my wings he had fastened to his foot.I became vagrant and wandering like yourself. I waited for you under porches, I stood on the lookout for you at the street corners, I watched for you from the summit of my tower.Every evening I returned to myself more charmed, more despairing, more bewitched, more lost!

¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER IV.~LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA~--LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE WHO ENTER HERE. Page 2¡·
"I had learned who you were; an Egyptian, Bohemian, gypsy, zingara.How could I doubt the magic?Listen.I hoped that a trial would free me from the charm.A witch enchanted Bruno d'Ast; he had her burned, and was cured.I knew it.I wanted to try the remedy.First I tried to have you forbidden the square in front of Notre-Dame, hoping to forget you if you returned no more.You paid no heed to it. You returned.Then the idea of abducting you occurred to me.One night I made the attempt.There were two of us. We already had you in our power, when that miserable officer came up.He delivered you.Thus did he begin your unhappiness, mine, and his own.Finally, no longer knowing what to do, and what was to become of me, I denounced you to the official.
"I thought that I should be cured like Bruno d'Ast.I also had a confused idea that a trial would deliver you into my hands; that, as a prisoner I should hold you, I should have you; that there you could not escape from me; that you had already possessed me a sufficiently long time to give me the right to possess you in my turn.When one does wrong, one must do it thoroughly.'Tis madness to halt midway in the monstrous!The extreme of crime has its deliriums of joy. A priest and a witch can mingle in delight upon the truss of straw in a dungeon!
"Accordingly, I denounced you.It was then that I terrified you when we met.The plot which I was weaving against you, the storm which I was heaping up above your head, burst from me in threats and lightning glances.Still, I hesitated. My project had its terrible sides which made me shrink back.
"perhaps I might have renounced it; perhaps my hideous thought would have withered in my brain, without bearing fruit.I thought that it would always depend upon me to follow up or discontinue this prosecution.But every evil thought is inexorable, and insists on becoming a deed; but where I believed myself to be all powerful, fate was more powerful than I.Alas! 'tis fate which has seized you and delivered you to the terrible wheels of the machine which I had constructed doubly.Listen.I am nearing the end.
"One day,--again the sun was shining brilliantly--I behold man pass me uttering your name and laughing, who carries sensuality in his eyes.Damnation!I followed him; you know the rest."
He ceased.
The young girl could find but one word:
"Oh, my phoebus!"
"Not that name!" said the priest, grasping her arm violently."Utter not that name!Oh! miserable wretches that we are, 'tis that name which has ruined us! or, rather we have ruined each other by the inexplicable play of fate! you are suffering, are you not? you are cold; the night makes you blind, the dungeon envelops you; but perhaps you still have some light in the bottom of your soul, were it only your childish love for that empty man who played with your heart, while I bear the dungeon within me; within me there is winter, ice, despair; I have night in my soul.
"Do you know what I have suffered?I was present at your trial.I was seated on the official's bench.Yes, under one of the priests' cowls, there were the contortions of the damned.When you were brought in, I was there; when you were questioned, I was there.--Den of wolves!--It was my crime, it was my gallows that I beheld being slowly reared over your head.I was there for every witness, every proof, every plea; I could count each of your steps in the painful path; I was still there when that ferocious beast--oh!I had not foreseen torture!Listen.I followed you to that chamber of anguish. I beheld you stripped and handled, half naked, by the infamous hands of the tormentor.I beheld your foot, that foot which I would have given an empire to kiss and die, that foot, beneath which to have had my head crushed I should have felt such rapture,--I beheld it encased in that horrible boot, which converts the limbs of a living being into one bloody clod.Oh, wretch!while I looked on at that, I held beneath my shroud a dagger, with which I lacerated my breast.When you uttered that cry, I plunged it into my flesh; at a second cry, it would have entered my heart.Look!I believe that it still bleeds."
He opened his cassock.His breast was in fact, mangled as by the claw of a tiger, and on his side he had a large and badly healed wound.
The prisoner recoiled with horror.
"Oh!" said the priest, "young girl, have pity upon me! You think yourself unhappy; alas! alas! you know not what unhappiness is.Oh! to love a woman! to be a priest! to be hated! to love with all the fury of one's soul; to feel that one would give for the least of her smiles, one's blood, one's vitals, one's fame, one's salvation, one's immortality and eternity, this life and the other; to regret that one is not a king, emperor, archangel, God, in order that one might place a greater slave beneath her feet; to clasp her night and day in one's dreams and one's thoughts, and to behold her in love with the trappings of a soldier and to have nothing to offer her but a priest's dirty cassock, which will inspire her with fear and disgust!To be present with one's jealousy and one's rage, while she lavishes on a miserable, blustering imbecile, treasures of love and beauty!To behold that body whose form burns you, that bosom which possesses so much sweetness, that flesh palpitate and blush beneath the kisses of another! Oh heaven!to love her foot, her arm, her shoulder, to think of her blue veins, of her brown skin, until one writhes for whole nights together on the pavement of one's cell, and to behold all those caresses which one has dreamed of, end in torture!To have succeeded only in stretching her upon the leather bed!Oh! these are the veritable pincers, reddened in the fires of hell.Oh! blessed is he who is sawn between two planks, or torn in pieces by four horses!Do you know what that torture is, which is imposed upon you for long nights by your burning arteries, your bursting heart, your breaking head, your teeth-knawed hands; mad tormentors which turn you incessantly, as upon a red-hot gridiron, to a thought of love, of jealousy, and of despair!Young girl, mercy! a truce for a moment! a few ashes on these live coals!Wipe away, I beseech you, the perspiration which trickles in great drops from my brow!Child! torture me with one hand, but caress me with the other!Have pity, young girl!Have pity upon me!"
The priest writhed on the wet pavement, beating his head against the corners of the stone steps.The young girl gazed at him, and listened to him.
When he ceased, exhausted and panting, she repeated in a low voice,--
"Oh my phoebus!"
The priest dragged himself towards her on his knees.
"I beseech you," he cried, "if you have any heart, do not repulse me!Oh!I love you!I am a wretch!When you utter that name, unhappy girl, it is as though you crushed all the fibres of my heart between your teeth.Mercy!If you come from hell I will go thither with you.I have done everything to that end.The hell where you are, shall he paradise; the sight of you is more charming than that of God! Oh! speak! you will have none of me?I should have thought the mountains would be shaken in their foundations on the day when a woman would repulse such a love.Oh! if you only would!Oh! how happy we might be.We would flee--I would help you to flee,--we would go somewhere, we would seek that spot on earth, where the sun is brightest, the sky the bluest, where the trees are most luxuriant.We would love each other, we would pour our two souls into each other, and we would have a thirst for ourselves which we would quench in common and incessantly at that fountain of inexhaustible love."
She interrupted with a terrible and thrilling laugh.
"Look, father, you have blood on your fingers!"
The priest remained for several moments as though petrified, with his eyes fixed upon his hand.
"Well, yes!" he resumed at last, with strange gentleness, "insult me, scoff at me, overwhelm me with scorn! but come, come.Let us make haste.It is to be to-morrow, I tell you. The gibbet on the Gr¨¨ve, you know it? it stands always ready.It is horrible! to see you ride in that tumbrel!Oh mercy!Until now I have never felt the power of my love for you.--Oh!follow me.You shall take your time to love me after I have saved you.You shall hate me as long as you will.But come.To-morrow! to-morrow! the gallows! your execution!Oh! save yourself! spare me!"
He seized her arm, he was beside himself, he tried to drag her away.
She fixed her eye intently on him.
"What has become of my phoebus?"
"Ah!" said the priest, releasing her arm, "you are pitiless."
"What has become of phoebus?" she repeated coldly.
"He is dead!" cried the priest.
"Dead!" said she, still icy and motionless "then why do you talk to me of living?"
He was not listening to her.
"Oh! yes," said he, as though speaking to himself, "he certainly must be dead.The blade pierced deeply.I believe I touched his heart with the point.Oh! my very soul was at the end of the dagger!"
The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress, and pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural force.
"Begone, monster!Begone, assassin!Leave me to die! May the blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow!Be thine, priest!Never! never!Nothing shall unite us! not hell itself!Go, accursed man! Never!"
The priest had stumbled on the stairs.He silently disentangled his feet from the folds of his robe, picked up his lantern again, and slowly began the ascent of the steps which led to the door; he opened the door and passed through it.
All at once, the young girl beheld his head reappear; it wore a frightful expression, and he cried, hoarse with rage and despair,--
"I tell you he is dead!"
She fell face downwards upon the floor, and there was no longer any sound audible in the cell than the sob of the drop of water which made the pool palpitate amid the darkness.

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER V.THE MOTHER.¡·
I do not believe that there is anything sweeter in the world than the ideas which awake in a mother's heart at the sight of her child's tiny shoe; especially if it is a shoe for festivals, for Sunday, for baptism, the shoe embroidered to the very sole, a shoe in which the infant has not yet taken a step. That shoe has so much grace and daintiness, it is so impossible for it to walk, that it seems to the mother as though she saw her child.She smiles upon it, she kisses it, she talks to it; she asks herself whether there can actually be a foot so tiny; and if the child be absent, the pretty shoe suffices to place the sweet and fragile creature before her eyes.She thinks she sees it, she does see it, complete, living, joyous, with its delicate hands, its round head, its pure lips, its serene eyes whose white is blue.If it is in winter, it is yonder, crawling on the carpet, it is laboriously climbing upon an ottoman, and the mother trembles lest it should approach the fire.If it is summer time, it crawls about the yard, in the garden, plucks up the grass between the paving-stones, gazes innocently at the big dogs, the big horses, without fear, plays with the shells, with the flowers, and makes the gardener grumble because he finds sand in the flower-beds and earth in the paths.Everything laughs, and shines and plays around it, like it, even the breath of air and the ray of sun which vie with each other in disporting among the silky ringlets of its hair.The shoe shows all this to the mother, and makes her heart melt as fire melts wax.
But when the child is lost, these thousand images of joy, of charms, of tenderness, which throng around the little shoe, become so many horrible things.The pretty broidered shoe is no longer anything but an instrument of torture which eternally crushes the heart of the mother.It is always the same fibre which vibrates, the tenderest and most sensitive; but instead of an angel caressing it, it is a demon who is wrenching at it.
One May morning, when the sun was rising on one of those dark blue skies against which Garofolo loves to place his Descents from the Cross, the recluse of the Tour-Roland heard a sound of wheels, of horses and irons in the place de Gr¨¨ve. She was somewhat aroused by it, knotted her hair upon her ears in order to deafen herself, and resumed her contemplation, on her knees, of the inanimate object which she had adored for fifteen years.This little shoe was the universe to her, as we have already said.Her thought was shut up in it, and was destined never more to quit it except at death. The sombre cave of the Tour-Roland alone knew how many bitter imprecations, touching complaints, prayers and sobs she had wafted to heaven in connection with that charming bauble of rose-colored satin.Never was more despair bestowed upon a prettier and more graceful thing.
It seemed as though her grief were breaking forth more violently than usual; and she could be heard outside lamenting in a loud and monotonous voice which rent the heart.
"Oh my daughter!" she said, "my daughter, my poor, dear little child, so I shall never see thee more!It is over! It always seems to me that it happened yesterday!My God! my God! it would have been better not to give her to me than to take her away so soon.Did you not know that our children are part of ourselves, and that a mother who has lost her child no longer believes in God?Ah!wretch that I am to have gone out that day!Lord!Lord! to have taken her from me thus; you could never have looked at me with her, when I was joyously warming her at my fire, when she laughed as she suckled, when I made her tiny feet creep up my breast to my lips?Oh! if you had looked at that, my God, you would have taken pity on my joy; you would not have taken from me the only love which lingered, in my heart! Was I then, Lord, so miserable a creature, that you could not look at me before condemning me?--Alas!Alas! here is the shoe; where is the foot? where is the rest?Where is the child?My daughter! my daughter! what did they do with thee?Lord, give her back to me.My knees have been worn for fifteen years in praying to thee, my God!Is not that enough?Give her back to me one day, one hour, one minute; one minute, Lord!and then cast me to the demon for all eternity!Oh! if I only knew where the skirt of your garment trails, I would cling to it with both hands, and you would be obliged to give me back my child!Have you no pity on her pretty little shoe?Could you condemn a poor mother to this torture for fifteen years?Good Virgin! good Virgin of heaven! my infant Jesus has been taken from me, has been stolen from me; they devoured her on a heath, they drank her blood, they cracked her bones!Good Virgin, have pity upon me.My daughter, I want my daughter!What is it to me that she is in paradise?I do not want your angel, I want my child!I am a lioness, I want my whelp.Oh!I will writhe on the earth, I will break the stones with my forehead, and I will damn myself, and I will curse you, Lord, if you keep my child from me! you see plainly that my arms are all bitten, Lord!Has the good God no mercy?--Oh! give me only salt and black bread, only let me have my daughter to warm me like a sun!Alas!Lord my God.Alas!Lord my God, I am only a vile sinner; but my daughter made me pious. I was full of religion for the love of her, and I beheld you through her smile as through an opening into heaven.Oh! if I could only once, just once more, a single time, put this shoe on her pretty little pink foot, I would die blessing you, good Virgin.Ah! fifteen years! she will be grown up now! --Unhappy child! what! it is really true then I shall never see her more, not even in heaven, for I shall not go there myself.Oh! what misery to think that here is her shoe, and that that is all!"
The unhappy woman flung herself upon that shoe; her consolation and her despair for so many years, and her vitals were rent with sobs as on the first day; because, for a mother who has lost her child, it is always the first day.That grief never grows old.The mourning garments may grow white and threadbare, the heart remains dark.
At that moment, the fresh and joyous cries of children passed in front of the cell.Every time that children crossed her vision or struck her ear, the poor mother flung herself into the darkest corner of her sepulchre, and one would have said, that she sought to plunge her head into the stone in order not to hear them.This time, on the contrary, she drew herself upright with a start, and listened eagerly.One of the little boys had just said,--
"They are going to hang a gypsy to-day."
With the abrupt leap of that spider which we have seen fling itself upon a fly at the trembling of its web, she rushed to her air-hole, which opened as the reader knows, on the place de Gr¨¨ve.A ladder had, in fact, been raised up against the permanent gibbet, and the hangman's assistant was busying himself with adjusting the chains which had been rusted by the rain.There were some people standing about.
The laughing group of children was already far away.The sacked nun sought with her eyes some passer-by whom she might question.All at once, beside her cell, she perceived a priest making a pretext of reading the public breviary, but who was much less occupied with the "lectern of latticed iron," than with the gallows, toward which he cast a fierce and gloomy glance from time to time.She recognized monsieur the archdeacon of Josas, a holy man.
"Father," she inquired, "whom are they about to hang yonder?"
The priest looked at her and made no reply; she repeated her question.Then he said,--
"I know not."
"Some children said that it was a gypsy," went on the recluse.
"I believe so," said the priest.
Then paquette la Chantefleurie burst into hyena-like laughter.
"Sister," said the archdeacon, "do you then hate the gypsies heartily?"
"Do I hate them!" exclaimed the recluse, " they are vampires, stealers of children!They devoured my little daughter, my child, my only child!I have no longer any heart, they devoured it!"
She was frightful.The priest looked at her coldly.
"There is one in particular whom I hate, and whom I have cursed," she resumed; "it is a young one, of the age which my daughter would be if her mother had not eaten my daughter. Every time that that young viper passes in front of my cell, she sets my blood in a ferment."
"Well, sister, rejoice," said the priest, icy as a sepulchral statue; "that is the one whom you are about to see die."
His head fell upon his bosom and he moved slowly away.
The recluse writhed her arms with joy.
"I predicted it for her, that she would ascend thither! Thanks, priest!" she cried.
And she began to pace up and down with long strides before the grating of her window, her hair dishevelled, her eyes flashing, with her shoulder striking against the wall, with the wild air of a female wolf in a cage, who has long been famished, and who feels the hour for her repast drawing near.

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¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER VI.THREE HUMAN HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTRUCTED. Page 1¡·
phoebus was not dead, however.Men of that stamp die hard.When Master philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary of the king, had said to poor Esmeralda; "He is dying," it was an error or a jest.When the archdeacon had repeated to the condemned girl; "He is dead," the fact is that he knew nothing about it, but that he believed it, that he counted on it, that he did not doubt it, that he devoutly hoped it.It would have been too hard for him to give favorable news of his rival to the woman whom he loved. Any man would have done the same in his place.
It was not that phoebus's wound had not been serious, but it had not been as much so as the archdeacon believed.The physician, to whom the soldiers of the watch had carried him at the first moment, had feared for his life during the space of a week, and had even told him so in Latin.But youth had gained the upper hand; and, as frequently happens, in spite of prognostications and diagnoses, nature had amused herself by saving the sick man under the physician's very nose.It was while he was still lying on the leech's pallet that he had submitted to the interrogations of philippe Lheulier and the official inquisitors, which had annoyed him greatly.Hence, one fine morning, feeling himself better, he had left his golden spurs with the leech as payment, and had slipped away.This had not, however, interfered with the progress of the affair.Justice, at that epoch, troubled itself very little about the clearness and definiteness of a criminal suit.provided that the accused was hung, that was all that was necessary.Now the judge had plenty of proofs against la Esmeralda.They had supposed phoebus to be dead, and that was the end of the matter.
phoebus, on his side, had not fled far.He had simply rejoined his company in garrison at Queue-en-Brie, in the Isle-de-France, a few stages from paris.
After all, it did not please him in the least to appear in this suit.He had a vague feeling that be should play a ridiculous figure in it.On the whole, he did not know what to think of the whole affair.Superstitious, and not given to devoutness, like every soldier who is only a soldier, when he came to question himself about this adventure, he did not feel assured as to the goat, as to the singular fashion in which he had met La Esmeralda, as to the no less strange manner in which she had allowed him to divine her love, as to her character as a gypsy, and lastly, as to the surly monk. He perceived in all these incidents much more magic than love, probably a sorceress, perhaps the devil; a comedy, in short, or to speak in the language of that day, a very disagreeable mystery, in which he played a very awkward part, the role of blows and derision.The captain was quite put out of countenance about it; he experienced that sort of shame which our La Fontaine has so admirably defined,--
Ashamed as a fox who has been caught by a fowl.
Moreover, he hoped that the affair would not get noised abroad, that his name would hardly be pronounced in it, and that in any case it would not go beyond the courts of the Tournelle.In this he was not mistaken, there was then no "Gazette des Tribunaux;" and as not a week passed which had not its counterfeiter to boil, or its witch to hang, or its heretic to burn, at some one of the innumerable justices of paris, people were so accustomed to seeing in all the squares the ancient feudal Themis, bare armed, with sleeves stripped up, performing her duty at the gibbets, the ladders, and the pillories, that they hardly paid any heed to it.Fashionable society of that day hardly knew the name of the victim who passed by at the corner of the street, and it was the populace at the most who regaled themselves with this coarse fare.An execution was an habitual incident of the public highways, like the braising-pan of the baker or the slaughter-house of the knacker.The executioner was only a sort of butcher of a little deeper dye than the rest.
Hence phoebus's mind was soon at ease on the score of the enchantress Esmeralda, or Similar, as he called her, concerning the blow from the dagger of the Bohemian or of the surly monk (it mattered little which to him), and as to the issue of the trial.But as soon as his heart was vacant in that direction, Fleur-de-Lys returned to it.Captain phoebus's heart, like the physics of that day, abhorred a vacuum.
Queue-en-Brie was a very insipid place to stay at then, a village of farriers, and cow-girls with chapped hands, a long line of poor dwellings and thatched cottages, which borders the grand road on both sides for half a league; a tail (queue), in short, as its name imports.
Fleur-de-Lys was his last passion but one, a pretty girl, a charming dowry; accordingly, one fine morning, quite cured, and assuming that, after the lapse of two months, the Bohemian affair must be completely finished and forgotten, the amorous cavalier arrived on a prancing horse at the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.
He paid no attention to a tolerably numerous rabble which had assembled in the place du parvis, before the portal of Notre-Dame; he remembered that it was the month of May; he supposed that it was some procession, some pentecost, some festival, hitched his horse to the ring at the door, and gayly ascended the stairs to his beautiful betrothed.
She was alone with her mother.
The scene of the witch, her goat, her cursed alphabet, and phoebus's long absences, still weighed on Fleur-de-Lys's heart. Nevertheless, when she beheld her captain enter, she thought him so handsome, his doublet so new, his baldrick so shining, and his air so impassioned, that she blushed with pleasure. The noble damsel herself was more charming than ever.Her magnificent blond hair was plaited in a ravishing manner, she was dressed entirely in that sky blue which becomes fair people so well, a bit of coquetry which she had learned from Colombe, and her eyes were swimming in that languor of love which becomes them still better.
phoebus, who had seen nothing in the line of beauty, since he left the village maids of Queue-en-Brie, was intoxicated with Fleur-de-Lys, which imparted to our officer so eager and gallant an air, that his peace was immediately made.Madame de Gondelaurier herself, still maternally seated in her big arm- chair, had not the heart to scold him.As for Fleur-de-Lys's reproaches, they expired in tender cooings.
The young girl was seated near the window still embroidering her grotto of Neptune.The captain was leaning over the back of her chair, and she was addressing her caressing reproaches to him in a low voice.
"What has become of you these two long months, wicked man?"
"I swear to you," replied phoebus, somewhat embarrassed by the question, "that you are beautiful enough to set an archbishop to dreaming."
She could not repress a smile.
"Good, good, sir.Let my beauty alone and answer my question.A fine beauty, in sooth!"
"Well, my dear cousin, I was recalled to the garrison.
"And where is that, if you please?and why did not you come to say farewell?"
"At Queue-en-Brie."
phoebus was delighted with the first question, which helped him to avoid the second.
"But that is quite close by, monsieur.Why did you not come to see me a single time?"
Here phoebus was rather seriously embarrassed.
"Because--the service--and then, charming cousin, I have been ill."
"Ill!" she repeated in alarm.
"Yes, wounded!"
"Wounded!"
She poor child was completely upset.
"Oh! do not be frightened at that," said phoebus, carelessly, "it was nothing.A quarrel, a sword cut; what is that to you?"
"What is that to me?" exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys, raising her beautiful eyes filled with tears."Oh! you do not say what you think when you speak thus.What sword cut was that? I wish to know all."
"Well, my dear fair one, I had a falling out with Mah¨¨ F¨¦dy, you know?the lieutenant of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and we ripped open a few inches of skin for each other.That is all."
The mendacious captain was perfectly well aware that an affair of honor always makes a man stand well in the eyes of a woman.In fact, Fleur-de-Lys looked him full in the face, all agitated with fear, pleasure, and admiration.Still, she was not completely reassured.
"provided that you are wholly cured, my phoebus!" said she."I do not know your Mah¨¨ F¨¦dy, but he is a villanous man.And whence arose this quarrel?"
Here phoebus, whose imagination was endowed with but mediocre power of creation, began to find himself in a quandary as to a means of extricating himself for his prowess.
"Oh! how do I know?--a mere nothing, a horse, a remark! Fair cousin," he exclaimed, for the sake of changing the conversation, "what noise is this in the Cathedral Square?"
He approached the window.
"Oh!~Mon Dieu~, fair cousin, how many people there are on the place!"
"I know not," said Fleur-de-Lys; "it appears that a witch is to do penance this morning before the church, and thereafter to be hung."
The captain was so thoroughly persuaded that la Esmeralda's affair was concluded, that he was but little disturbed by Fleur- de-Lys's words.Still, he asked her one or two questions.
"What is the name of this witch?"
"I do not know," she replied.
"And what is she said to have done?"
She shrugged her white shoulders.
"I know not."
"Oh, ~mon Dieu~ Jesus!" said her mother; "there are so many witches nowadays that I dare say they burn them without knowing their names.One might as well seek the name of every cloud in the sky.After all, one may be tranquil. The good God keeps his register."Here the venerable dame rose and came to the window."Good Lord!you are right, phoebus," said she."The rabble is indeed great.There are people on all the roofs, blessed be God!Do you know, phoebus, this reminds me of my best days.The entrance of King Charles VII., when, also, there were many people.I no longer remember in what year that was.When I speak of this to you, it produces upon you the effect,--does it not?--the effect of something very old, and upon me of something very young.Oh! the crowd was far finer than at the present day. They even stood upon the machicolations of the porte Sainte- Antoine.The king had the queen on a pillion, and after their highnesses came all the ladies mounted behind all the lords.I remember that they laughed loudly, because beside Amanyon de Garlande, who was very short of stature, there rode the Sire Matefelon, a chevalier of gigantic size, who had killed heaps of English.It was very fine.A procession of all the gentlemen of France, with their oriflammes waving red before the eye.There were some with pennons and some with banners.How can I tell? the Sire de Calm with a pennon; Jean de Chateaumorant with a banner; the Sire de Courcy with a banner, and a more ample one than any of the others except the Duc de Bourbon.Alas! 'tis a sad thing to think that all that has existed and exists no longer!"
The two lovers were not listening to the venerable dowager.phoebus had returned and was leaning on the back of his betrothed's chair, a charming post whence his libertine glance plunged into all the openings of Fleur-de-Lys's gorget. This gorget gaped so conveniently, and allowed him to see so many exquisite things and to divine so many more, that phoebus, dazzled by this skin with its gleams of satin, said to himself, "How can any one love anything but a fair skin?"
Both were silent.The young girl raised sweet, enraptured eyes to him from time to time, and their hair mingled in a ray of spring sunshine.
"phoebus," said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, in a low voice, "we are to be married three months hence; swear to me that you have never loved any other woman than myself."
"I swear it, fair angel!" replied phoebus, and his passionate glances aided the sincere tone of his voice in convincing Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good mother, charmed to see the betrothed pair on terms of such perfect understanding, had just quitted the apartment to attend to some domestic matter; phoebus observed it, and this so emboldened the adventurous captain that very strange ideas mounted to his brain.Fleur-de-Lys loved him, he was her betrothed; she was alone with him; his former taste for her had re-awakened, not with all its fresh- ness but with all its ardor; after all, there is no great harm in tasting one's wheat while it is still in the blade; I do not know whether these ideas passed through his mind, but one thing is certain, that Fleur-de-Lys was suddenly alarmed by the expression of his glance.She looked round and saw that her mother was no longer there.
"Good heavens!" said she, blushing and uneasy, "how very warm I am?"
"I think, in fact," replied phoebus, "that it cannot be far from midday.The sun is troublesome.We need only lower the curtains."
"No, no," exclaimed the poor little thing, "on the contrary, I need air."
And like a fawn who feels the breath of the pack of hounds, she rose, ran to the window, opened it, and rushed upon the balcony.
phoebus, much discomfited, followed her.
The place du parvis Notre-Dame, upon which the balcony looked, as the reader knows, presented at that moment a singular and sinister spectacle which caused the fright of the timid Fleur-de-Lys to change its nature.
An immense crowd, which overflowed into all the neighboring streets, encumbered the place, properly speaking.The little wall, breast high, which surrounded the place, would not have sufficed to keep it free had it not been lined with a thick hedge of sergeants and hackbuteers, culverines in hand.Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebuses, the parvis was empty.Its entrance was guarded by a force of halberdiers with the armorial bearings of the bishop.The large doors of the church were closed, and formed a contrast with the innumerable windows on the place, which, open to their very gables, allowed a view of thousands of heads heaped up almost like the piles of bullets in a park of artillery.
The surface of this rabble was dingy, dirty, earthy.The spectacle which it was expecting was evidently one of the sort which possess the privilege of bringing out and calling together the vilest among the populace.Nothing is so hideous as the noise which was made by that swarm of yellow caps and dirty heads.In that throng there were more laughs than cries, more women than men.
From time to time, a sharp and vibrating voice pierced the general clamor.
"Oh¨¦!Mahiet Baliffre!Is she to be hung yonder?"
"Fool! t'is here that she is to make her apology in her shift! the good God is going to cough Latin in her face! That is always done here, at midday.If 'tis the gallows that you wish, go to the Gr¨¨ve."
"I will go there, afterwards."
"Tell me, la Boucanbry?Is it true that she has refused a confessor?"
"It appears so, La Bechaigne."
"You see what a pagan she is!"
"'Tis the custom, monsieur.The bailiff of the courts is bound to deliver the malefactor ready judged for execution if he be a layman, to the provost of paris; if a clerk, to the official of the bishopric."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, God!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "the poor creature!"
This thought filled with sadness the glance which she cast upon the populace.The captain, much more occupied with her than with that pack of the rabble, was amorously rumpling her girdle behind.She turned round, entreating and smiling.
"please let me alone, phoebus!If my mother were to return, she would see your hand!"
At that moment, midday rang slowly out from the clock of Notre-Dame.A murmur of satisfaction broke out in the crowd.The last vibration of the twelfth stroke had hardly died away when all heads surged like the waves beneath a squall, and an immense shout went up from the pavement, the windows, and the roofs,
"There she is!"
Fleur-de-Lys pressed her hands to her eyes, that she might not see.
"Charming girl," said phoebus, "do you wish to withdraw?"
"No," she replied; and she opened through curiosity, the eyes which she had closed through fear.
A tumbrel drawn by a stout Norman horse, and all surrounded by cavalry in violet livery with white crosses, had just debouched upon the place through the Rue Saint-pierre- aux-Boeufs.The sergeants of the watch were clearing a passage for it through the crowd, by stout blows from their clubs. Beside the cart rode several officers of justice and police, recognizable by their black costume and their awkwardness in the saddle.Master Jacques Charmolue paraded at their head.
In the fatal cart sat a young girl with her arms tied behind her back, and with no priest beside her.She was in her shift; her long black hair (the fashion then was to cut it off only at the foot of the gallows) fell in disorder upon her half-bared throat and shoulders.
Athwart that waving hair, more glossy than the plumage of a raven, a thick, rough, gray rope was visible, twisted and knotted, chafing her delicate collar-bones and twining round the charming neck of the poor girl, like an earthworm round a flower.Beneath that rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with bits of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, because nothing is refused to those who are about to die.The spectators in the windows could see in the bottom of the cart her naked legs which she strove to hide beneath her, as by a final feminine instinct.At her feet lay a little goat, bound.The condemned girl held together with her teeth her imperfectly fastened shift.One would have said that she suffered still more in her misery from being thus exposed almost naked to the eyes of all.Alas! modesty is not made for such shocks.
"Jesus!" said Fleur-de-Lys hastily to the captain."Look fair cousin, 'tis that wretched Bohemian with the goat."
So saying, she turned to phoebus.His eyes were fixed on the tumbrel.He was very pale.
"What Bohemian with the goat?" he stammered.
"What!" resumed Fleur-de-Lys, "do you not remember?"
phoebus interrupted her.
"I do not know what you mean."
He made a step to re-enter the room, but Fleur-de-Lys, whose jealousy, previously so vividly aroused by this same gypsy, had just been re-awakened, Fleur-de-Lys gave him a look full of penetration and distrust.She vaguely recalled at that moment having heard of a captain mixed up in the trial of that witch.
"What is the matter with you?" she said to phoebus, "one would say, that this woman had disturbed you."
phoebus forced a sneer,--
"Me!Not the least in the world!Ah! yes, certainly!"
"Remain, then!" she continued imperiously, "and let us see the end."
The unlucky captain was obliged to remain.He was somewhat reassured by the fact that the condemned girl never removed her eyes from the bottom of the cart.It was but too surely la Esmeralda.In this last stage of opprobrium and misfortune, she was still beautiful; her great black eyes appeared still larger, because of the emaciation of her cheeks; her pale profile was pure and sublime.She resembled what she had been, in the same degree that a virgin by Masaccio, resembles a virgin of Raphael,--weaker, thinner, more delicate.

¡¶BOOK EIGHTH CHAPTER VI.THREE HUMAN HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTRUCTED. Page 2¡·
Moreover, there was nothing in her which was not shaken in some sort, and which with the exception of her modesty, she did not let go at will, so profoundly had she been broken by stupor and despair.Her body bounded at every jolt of the tumbrel like a dead or broken thing; her gaze was dull and imbecile.A tear was still visible in her eyes, but motionless and frozen, so to speak.
Meanwhile, the lugubrious cavalcade has traversed the crowd amid cries of joy and curious attitudes.But as a faithful historian, we must state that on beholding her so beautiful, so depressed, many were moved with pity, even among the hardest of them.
The tumbrel had entered the parvis.
It halted before the central portal.The escort ranged themselves in line on both sides.The crowd became silent, and, in the midst of this silence full of anxiety and solemnity, the two leaves of the grand door swung back, as of themselves, on their hinges, which gave a creak like the sound of a fife.Then there became visible in all its length, the deep, gloomy church, hung in black, sparely lighted with a few candles gleaming afar off on the principal altar, opened in the midst of the place which was dazzling with light, like the mouth of a cavern.At the very extremity, in the gloom of the apse, a gigantic silver cross was visible against a black drapery which hung from the vault to the pavement.The whole nave was deserted.But a few heads of priests could be seen moving confusedly in the distant choir stalls, and, at the moment when the great door opened, there escaped from the church a loud, solemn, and monotonous chanting, which cast over the head of the condemned girl, in gusts, fragments of melancholy psalms,--
"~Non timebo millia populi circumdantis me: exsurge, Domine; salvum me fac, Deus~!"
"~Salvum me fac, Deus, quoniam intraverunt aquoe usque ad animam meam~.
"~Infixus sum in limo profundi; et non est substantia~."
At the same time, another voice, separate from the choir, intoned upon the steps of the chief altar, this melancholy offertory,-
"~Qui verbum meum audit, et credit ei qui misit me, habet vitam oeternam et in judicium non venit; sed transit a morte im vitam~*."
* "He that heareth my word and believeth on Him that sent me, hath eternal life, and hath not come into condemnation; but is passed from death to life."
This chant, which a few old men buried in the gloom sang from afar over that beautiful creature, full of youth and life, caressed by the warm air of spring, inundated with sunlight was the mass for the dead.
The people listened devoutly.
The unhappy girl seemed to lose her sight and her consciousness in the obscure interior of the church.Her white lips moved as though in prayer, and the headsman's assistant who approached to assist her to alight from the cart, heard her repeating this word in a low tone,--"phoebus."
They untied her hands, made her alight, accompanied by her goat, which had also been unbound, and which bleated with joy at finding itself free: and they made her walk barefoot on the hard pavement to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her neck trailed behind her.One would have said it was a serpent following her.
Then the chanting in the church ceased.A great golden cross and a row of wax candles began to move through the gloom.The halberds of the motley beadles clanked; and, a few moments later, a long procession of priests in chasubles, and deacons in dalmatics, marched gravely towards the condemned girl, as they drawled their song, spread out before her view and that of the crowd.But her glance rested on the one who marched at the head, immediately after the cross-bearer.
"Oh!" she said in a low voice, and with a shudder, "'tis he again!the priest!"
It was in fact, the archdeacon.On his left he had the sub- chanter, on his right, the chanter, armed with his official wand.He advanced with head thrown back, his eyes fixed and wide open, intoning in a strong voice,--
"~De ventre inferi clamavi, et exaudisti vocem meam~.
"~Et projecisti me in profundum in corde mans, et flumem circumdedit me~*."
*"Out of the belly of hell cried I, and thou heardest my voice.For thou hadst cast me into the deep in the midst of the seas, and the floods compassed me about."
At the moment when he made his appearance in the full daylight beneath the lofty arched portal, enveloped in an ample cope of silver barred with a black cross, he was so pale that more than one person in the crowd thought that one of the marble bishops who knelt on the sepulchral stones of the choir had risen and was come to receive upon the brink of the tomb, the woman who was about to die.
She, no less pale, no less like a statue, had hardly noticed that they had placed in her hand a heavy, lighted candle of yellow wax; she had not heard the yelping voice of the clerk reading the fatal contents of the apology; when they told her to respond with Amen, she responded Amen.She only recovered life and force when she beheld the priest make a sign to her guards to withdraw, and himself advance alone towards her.
Then she felt her blood boil in her head, and a remnant of indignation flashed up in that soul already benumbed and cold.
The archdeacon approached her slowly; even in that extremity, she beheld him cast an eye sparkling with sensuality, jealousy, and desire, over her exposed form.Then he said aloud,--
"Young girl, have you asked God's pardon for your faults and shortcomings?"
He bent down to her ear, and added (the spectators supposed that he was receiving her last confession): "Will you have me?I can still save you!"
She looked intently at him: "Begone, demon, or I will denounce you!"
He gave vent to a horrible smile: "You will not be believed. You will only add a scandal to a crime.Reply quickly!Will you have me?"
"What have you done with my phoebus?"
"He is dead!" said the priest.
At that moment the wretched archdeacon raised his head mechanically and beheld at the other end of the place, in the balcony of the Gondelaurier mansion, the captain standing beside Fleur-de-Lys.He staggered, passed his hand across his eyes, looked again, muttered a curse, and all his features were violently contorted.
"Well, die then!" he hissed between his teeth."No one shall have you."Then, raising his hand over the gypsy, he exclaimed in a funereal voice:--"~I nunc, anima anceps, et sit tibi Deus misenicors~!"*
*"Go now, soul, trembling in the balance, and God have mercy upon thee."
This was the dread formula with which it was the custom to conclude these gloomy ceremonies.It was the signal agreed upon between the priest and the executioner.
The crowd knelt.
"~Kyrie eleison~,"* said the priests, who had remained beneath the arch of the portal.
*"Lord have mercy upon us."
"~Kyrie eleison~," repeated the throng in that murmur which runs over all heads, like the waves of a troubled sea.
"Amen," said the archdeacon.
He turned his back on the condemned girl, his head sank upon his breast once more, he crossed his hands and rejoined his escort of priests, and a moment later he was seen to disappear, with the cross, the candles, and the copes, beneath the misty arches of the cathedral, and his sonorous voice was extinguished by degrees in the choir, as he chanted this verse of despair,--
"~Omnes gurgites tui et fluctus tui super me transierunt."*
*"All thy waves and thy billows have gone over me."
At the same time, the intermittent clash of the iron butts of the beadles' halberds, gradually dying away among the columns of the nave, produced the effect of a clock hammer striking the last hour of the condemned.
The doors of Notre-Dame remained open, allowing a view of the empty desolate church, draped in mourning, without candles, and without voices.
The condemned girl remained motionless in her place, waiting to be disposed of.One of the sergeants of police was obliged to notify Master Charmolue of the fact, as the latter, during this entire scene, had been engaged in studying the bas-relief of the grand portal which represents, according to some, the sacrifice of Abraham; according to others, the philosopher's alchemical operation: the sun being figured forth by the angel; the fire, by the fagot; the artisan, by Abraham.
There was considerable difficulty in drawing him away from that contemplation, but at length he turned round; and, at a signal which he gave, two men clad in yellow, the executioner's assistants, approached the gypsy to bind her hands once more.
The unhappy creature, at the moment of mounting once again the fatal cart, and proceeding to her last halting-place, was seized, possibly, with some poignant clinging to life. She raised her dry, red eyes to heaven, to the sun, to the silvery clouds, cut here and there by a blue trapezium or triangle; then she lowered them to objects around her, to the earth, the throng, the houses; all at once, while the yellow man was binding her elbows, she uttered a terrible cry, a cry of joy.Yonder, on that balcony, at the corner of the place, she had just caught sight of him, of her friend, her lord, phoebus, the other apparition of her life!
The judge had lied! the priest had lied! it was certainly he, she could not doubt it; he was there, handsome, alive, dressed in his brilliant uniform, his plume on his head, his sword by his side!
"phoebus!" she cried, "my phoebus!"
And she tried to stretch towards him arms trembling with love and rapture, but they were bound.
Then she saw the captain frown, a beautiful young girl who was leaning against him gazed at him with disdainful lips and irritated eyes; then phoebus uttered some words which did not reach her, and both disappeared precipitately behind the window opening upon the balcony, which closed after them.
"phoebus!" she cried wildly, "can it be you believe it?" A monstrous thought had just presented itself to her.She remembered that she had been condemned to death for murder committed on the person of phoebus de Chateaupers.
She had borne up until that moment.But this last blow was too harsh.She fell lifeless on the pavement.
"Come," said Charmolue, "carry her to the cart, and make an end of it."
No one had yet observed in the gallery of the statues of the kings, carved directly above the arches of the portal, a strange spectator, who had, up to that time, observed everything with such impassiveness, with a neck so strained, a visage so hideous that, in his motley accoutrement of red and violet, he might have been taken for one of those stone monsters through whose mouths the long gutters of the cathedral have discharged their waters for six hundred years.This spectator had missed nothing that had taken place since midday in front of the portal of Notre-Dame.And at the very beginning he had securely fastened to one of the small columns a large knotted rope, one end of which trailed on the flight of steps below.This being done, he began to look on tranquilly, whistling from time to time when a blackbird flitted past. Suddenly, at the moment when the superintendent's assistants were preparing to execute Charmolue's phlegmatic order, he threw his leg over the balustrade of the gallery, seized the rope with his feet, his knees and his hands; then he was seen to glide down the fa?ade, as a drop of rain slips down a window- pane, rush to the two executioners with the swiftness of a cat which has fallen from a roof, knock them down with two enormous fists, pick up the gypsy with one hand, as a child would her doll, and dash back into the church with a single bound, lifting the young girl above his head and crying in a formidable voice,--
"Sanctuary!"
This was done with such rapidity, that had it taken place at night, the whole of it could have been seen in the space of a single flash of lightning.
"Sanctuary!Sanctuary!" repeated the crowd; and the clapping of ten thousand hands made Quasimodo's single eye sparkle with joy and pride.
This shock restored the condemned girl to her senses.She raised her eyelids, looked at Quasimodo, then closed them again suddenly, as though terrified by her deliverer.
Charmolue was stupefied, as well as the executioners and the entire escort.In fact, within the bounds of Notre-Dame, the condemned girl could not be touched.The cathedral was a place of refuge.All temporal jurisdiction expired upon its threshold.
Quasimodo had halted beneath the great portal, his huge feet seemed as solid on the pavement of the church as the heavy Roman pillars.His great, bushy head sat low between his shoulders, like the heads of lions, who also have a mane and no neck.He held the young girl, who was quivering all over, suspended from his horny hands like a white drapery; but he carried her with as much care as though he feared to break her or blight her.One would have said that he felt that she was a delicate, exquisite, precious thing, made for other hands than his.There were moments when he looked as if not daring to touch her, even with his breath.Then, all at once, he would press her forcibly in his arms, against his angular bosom, like his own possession, his treasure, as the mother of that child would have done.His gnome's eye, fastened upon her, inundated her with tenderness, sadness, and pity, and was suddenly raised filled with lightnings.Then the women laughed and wept, the crowd stamped with enthusiasm, for, at that moment Quasimodo had a beauty of his own.He was handsome; he, that orphan, that foundling, that outcast, he felt himself august and strong, he gazed in the face of that society from which he was banished, and in which he had so powerfully intervened, of that human justice from which he had wrenched its prey, of all those tigers whose jaws were forced to remain empty, of those policemen, those judges, those executioners, of all that force of the king which he, the meanest of creatures, had just broken, with the force of God.
And then, it was touching to behold this protection which had fallen from a being so hideous upon a being so unhappy, a creature condemned to death saved by Quasimodo.They were two extremes of natural and social wretchedness, coming into contact and aiding each other.
Meanwhile, after several moments of triumph, Quasimodo had plunged abruptly into the church with his burden.The populace, fond of all prowess, sought him with their eyes, beneath the gloomy nave, regretting that he had so speedily disappeared from their acclamations.All at once, he was seen to re-appear at one of the extremities of the gallery of the kings of France; he traversed it, running like a madman, raising his conquest high in his arms and shouting: "Sanctuary!" The crowd broke forth into fresh applause.The gallery passed, he plunged once more into the interior of the church.A moment later, he re-appeared upon the upper platform, with the gypsy still in his arms, still running madly, still crying, "Sanctuary!" and the throng applauded. Finally, he made his appearance for the third time upon the summit of the tower where hung the great bell; from that point he seemed to be showing to the entire city the girl whom he had saved, and his voice of thunder, that voice which was so rarely heard, and which he never heard himself, repeated thrice with frenzy, even to the clouds: "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!Sanctuary!"
"Noel!Noel!" shouted the populace in its turn; and that immense acclamation flew to astonish the crowd assembled at the Gr¨¨ve on the other bank, and the recluse who was still waiting with her eyes riveted on the gibbet.

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