“Death and passion! You make me boil, Gringoire. The man on the

tower of Saint-Gervais has just cried half-past one o’clock in

the morning.”

“Oh,” retorted Gringoire, “’tis no fault of mine, but of the

watch and the king. I have just had a narrow escape. I always

just miss being hung. ’Tis my predestination.”

“You lack everything,” said the other. “But come quickly. Have

you the password?”

“Fancy, master, I have seen the king. I come from him. He wears

fustian breeches. ’Tis an adventure.”

“Oh! distaff of words! what is your adventure to me! Have you the

password of the outcasts?”

“I have it. Be at ease. ‘Little sword in pocket.’”

“Good. Otherwise, we could not make our way as far as the church.

The outcasts bar the streets. Fortunately, it appears that they

have encountered resistance. We may still arrive in time.”

“Yes, master, but how are we to get into Notre-Dame?”

“I have the key to the tower.”

“And how are we to get out again?”

“Behind the cloister there is a little door which opens on the

Terrain and the water. I have taken the key to it, and I moored a

boat there this morning.”

“I have had a beautiful escape from being hung!” Gringoire

repeated.

“Eh, quick! come!” said the other.

Both descended towards the city with long strides.

CHAPTER VII. CHATEAUPERS TO THE RESCUE.

The reader will, perhaps, recall the critical situation in which

we left Quasimodo. The brave deaf man, assailed on all sides, had

lost, if not all courage, at least all hope of saving, not

himself (he was not thinking of himself), but the gypsy. He ran

distractedly along the gallery. Notre-Dame was on the point of

being taken by storm by the outcasts. All at once, a great

galloping of horses filled the neighboring streets, and, with a

long file of torches and a thick column of cavaliers, with free

reins and lances in rest, these furious sounds debouched on the

Place like a hurricane,—

“France! France! cut down the louts! Châteaupers to the rescue!

Provostship! Provostship!”

The frightened vagabonds wheeled round.

Quasimodo who did not hear, saw the naked swords, the torches,

the irons of the pikes, all that cavalry, at the head of which he

recognized Captain Phœbus; he beheld the confusion of the

outcasts, the terror of some, the disturbance among the bravest

of them, and from this unexpected succor he recovered so much

strength, that he hurled from the church the first assailants who

were already climbing into the gallery.

It was, in fact, the king’s troops who had arrived. The vagabonds

behaved bravely. They defended themselves like desperate men.

Caught on the flank, by the Rue Saint-Pierre-aux-Bœufs, and in

the rear through the Rue du Parvis, driven to bay against

Notre-Dame, which they still assailed and Quasimodo defended, at

the same time besiegers and besieged, they were in the singular

situation in which Comte Henri Harcourt, _Taurinum obsessor idem

et obsessus_, as his epitaph says, found himself later on, at the

famous siege of Turin, in 1640, between Prince Thomas of Savoy,

whom he was besieging, and the Marquis de Leganez, who was

blockading him.

The battle was frightful. There was a dog’s tooth for wolf’s

flesh, as P. Mathieu says. The king’s cavaliers, in whose midst

Phœbus de Châteaupers bore himself valiantly, gave no quarter,

and the slash of the sword disposed of those who escaped the

thrust of the lance. The outcasts, badly armed foamed and bit

with rage. Men, women, children, hurled themselves on the

cruppers and the breasts of the horses, and hung there like cats,

with teeth, finger nails and toe nails. Others struck the

archers’ in the face with their torches. Others thrust iron hooks

into the necks of the cavaliers and dragged them down. They

slashed in pieces those who fell.

One was noticed who had a large, glittering scythe, and who, for

a long time, mowed the legs of the horses. He was frightful. He

was singing a ditty, with a nasal intonation, he swung and drew

back his scythe incessantly. At every blow he traced around him a

great circle of severed limbs. He advanced thus into the very

thickest of the cavalry, with the tranquil slowness, the lolling

of the head and the regular breathing of a harvester attacking a

field of wheat. It was Clopin Trouillefou. A shot from an

arquebus laid him low.

In the meantime, windows had been opened again. The neighbors

hearing the war cries of the king’s troops, had mingled in the

affray, and bullets rained upon the outcasts from every story.

The Parvis was filled with a thick smoke, which the musketry

streaked with flame. Through it one could confusedly distinguish

the front of Notre-Dame, and the decrepit Hôtel-Dieu with some

wan invalids gazing down from the heights of its roof all

checkered with dormer windows.

At length the vagabonds gave way. Weariness, the lack of good

weapons, the fright of this surprise, the musketry from the

windows, the valiant attack of the king’s troops, all overwhelmed

them. They forced the line of assailants, and fled in every

direction, leaving the Parvis encumbered with dead.

When Quasimodo, who had not ceased to fight for a moment, beheld

this rout, he fell on his knees and raised his hands to heaven;

then, intoxicated with joy, he ran, he ascended with the

swiftness of a bird to that cell, the approaches to which he had

so intrepidly defended. He had but one thought now; it was to

kneel before her whom he had just saved for the second time.

When he entered the cell, he found it empty.

BOOK ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER I. THE LITTLE SHOE.

La Esmeralda was sleeping at the moment when the outcasts

assailed the church.

Soon the ever-increasing uproar around the edifice, and the

uneasy bleating of her goat which had been awakened, had roused

her from her slumbers. She had sat up, she had listened, she had

looked; then, terrified by the light and noise, she had rushed

from her cell to see. The aspect of the Place, the vision which

was moving in it, the disorder of that nocturnal assault, that

hideous crowd, leaping like a cloud of frogs, half seen in the

gloom, the croaking of that hoarse multitude, those few red

torches running and crossing each other in the darkness like the

meteors which streak the misty surfaces of marshes, this whole

scene produced upon her the effect of a mysterious battle between

the phantoms of the witches’ sabbath and the stone monsters of

the church. Imbued from her very infancy with the superstitions

of the Bohemian tribe, her first thought was that she had caught

the strange beings peculiar to the night, in their deeds of

witchcraft. Then she ran in terror to cower in her cell, asking

of her pallet some less terrible nightmare.

But little by little the first vapors of terror had been

dissipated; from the constantly increasing noise, and from many

other signs of reality, she felt herself besieged not by

spectres, but by human beings. Then her fear, though it did not

increase, changed its character. She had dreamed of the

possibility of a popular mutiny to tear her from her asylum. The

idea of once more recovering life, hope, Phœbus, who was ever

present in her future, the extreme helplessness of her condition,

flight cut off, no support, her abandonment, her isolation,—these

thoughts and a thousand others overwhelmed her. She fell upon her

knees, with her head on her bed, her hands clasped over her head,

full of anxiety and tremors, and, although a gypsy, an idolater,

and a pagan, she began to entreat with sobs, mercy from the good

Christian God, and to pray to our Lady, her hostess. For even if

one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one is

always of the religion of the temple which is nearest at hand.

She remained thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling in

truth, more than praying, chilled by the ever-closer breath of

that furious multitude, understanding nothing of this outburst,

ignorant of what was being plotted, what was being done, what

they wanted, but foreseeing a terrible issue.

In the midst of this anguish, she heard some one walking near

her. She turned round. Two men, one of whom carried a lantern,

had just entered her cell. She uttered a feeble cry.

“Fear nothing,” said a voice which was not unknown to her, “it is

I.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Pierre Gringoire.”

This name reassured her. She raised her eyes once more, and

recognized the poet in very fact. But there stood beside him a

black figure veiled from head to foot, which struck her by its

silence.

“Oh!” continued Gringoire in a tone of reproach, “Djali

recognized me before you!”

The little goat had not, in fact, waited for Gringoire to

announce his name. No sooner had he entered than it rubbed itself

gently against his knees, covering the poet with caresses and

with white hairs, for it was shedding its hair. Gringoire

returned the caresses.

“Who is this with you?” said the gypsy, in a low voice.

“Be at ease,” replied Gringoire. “’Tis one of my friends.” Then

the philosopher setting his lantern on the ground, crouched upon

the stones, and exclaimed enthusiastically, as he pressed Djali

in his arms,—

“Oh! ’tis a graceful beast, more considerable no doubt, for it’s

neatness than for its size, but ingenious, subtle, and lettered

as a grammarian! Let us see, my Djali, hast thou forgotten any of

thy pretty tricks? How does Master Jacques Charmolue?...”

The man in black did not allow him to finish. He approached

Gringoire and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

Gringoire rose.

“’Tis true,” said he: “I forgot that we are in haste. But that is

no reason master, for getting furious with people in this manner.

My dear and lovely child, your life is in danger, and Djali’s

also. They want to hang you again. We are your friends, and we

have come to save you. Follow us.”

“Is it true?” she exclaimed in dismay.

“Yes, perfectly true. Come quickly!”

“I am willing,” she stammered. “But why does not your friend

speak?”

“Ah!” said Gringoire, “’tis because his father and mother were

fantastic people who made him of a taciturn temperament.”

She was obliged to content herself with this explanation.

Gringoire took her by the hand; his companion picked up the

lantern and walked on in front. Fear stunned the young girl. She

allowed herself to be led away. The goat followed them, frisking,

so joyous at seeing Gringoire again that it made him stumble

every moment by thrusting its horns between his legs.

“Such is life,” said the philosopher, every time that he came

near falling down; “’tis often our best friends who cause us to

be overthrown.”

They rapidly descended the staircase of the towers, crossed the

church, full of shadows and solitude, and all reverberating with

uproar, which formed a frightful contrast, and emerged into the

courtyard of the cloister by the red door. The cloister was

deserted; the canons had fled to the bishop’s palace in order to

pray together; the courtyard was empty, a few frightened lackeys

were crouching in dark corners. They directed their steps towards

the door which opened from this court upon the Terrain. The man

in black opened it with a key which he had about him. Our readers

are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of land enclosed by walls

on the side of the City and belonging to the chapter of

Notre-Dame, which terminated the island on the east, behind the

church. They found this enclosure perfectly deserted. There was

here less tumult in the air. The roar of the outcasts’ assault

reached them more confusedly and less clamorously. The fresh

breeze which follows the current of a stream, rustled the leaves

of the only tree planted on the point of the Terrain, with a

noise that was already perceptible. But they were still very

close to danger. The nearest edifices to them were the bishop’s

palace and the church. It was plainly evident that there was

great internal commotion in the bishop’s palace. Its shadowy mass

was all furrowed with lights which flitted from window to window;

as, when one has just burned paper, there remains a sombre

edifice of ashes in which bright sparks run a thousand eccentric

courses. Beside them, the enormous towers of Notre-Dame, thus

viewed from behind, with the long nave above which they rise cut

out in black against the red and vast light which filled the

Parvis, resembled two gigantic andirons of some cyclopean

fire-grate.

What was to be seen of Paris on all sides wavered before the eye

in a gloom mingled with light. Rembrandt has such backgrounds to

his pictures.

The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the

Terrain. There, at the very brink of the water, stood the

wormeaten remains of a fence of posts latticed with laths,

whereon a low vine spread out a few thin branches like the

fingers of an outspread hand. Behind, in the shadow cast by this

trellis, a little boat lay concealed. The man made a sign to

Gringoire and his companion to enter. The goat followed them. The

man was the last to step in. Then he cut the boat’s moorings,

pushed it from the shore with a long boat-hook, and, seizing two

oars, seated himself in the bow, rowing with all his might

towards midstream. The Seine is very rapid at this point, and he

had a good deal of trouble in leaving the point of the island.

Gringoire’s first care on entering the boat was to place the goat

on his knees. He took a position in the stern; and the young

girl, whom the stranger inspired with an indefinable uneasiness,

seated herself close to the poet.

When our philosopher felt the boat sway, he clapped his hands and

kissed Djali between the horns.

“Oh!” said he, “now we are safe, all four of us.”

He added with the air of a profound thinker, “One is indebted

sometimes to fortune, sometimes to ruse, for the happy issue of

great enterprises.”

The boat made its way slowly towards the right shore. The young

girl watched the unknown man with secret terror. He had carefully

turned off the light of his dark lantern. A glimpse could be

caught of him in the obscurity, in the bow of the boat, like a

spectre. His cowl, which was still lowered, formed a sort of

mask; and every time that he spread his arms, upon which hung

large black sleeves, as he rowed, one would have said they were

two huge bat’s wings. Moreover, he had not yet uttered a word or

breathed a syllable. No other noise was heard in the boat than

the splashing of the oars, mingled with the rippling of the water

along her sides.

“On my soul!” exclaimed Gringoire suddenly, “we are as cheerful

and joyous as young owls! We preserve the silence of Pythagoreans

or fishes! _Pasque-Dieu!_ my friends, I should greatly like to

have some one speak to me. The human voice is music to the human

ear. ’Tis not I who say that, but Didymus of Alexandria, and they

are illustrious words. Assuredly, Didymus of Alexandria is no

mediocre philosopher.—One word, my lovely child! say but one word

to me, I entreat you. By the way, you had a droll and peculiar

little pout; do you still make it? Do you know, my dear, that

parliament hath full jurisdiction over all places of asylum, and

that you were running a great risk in your little chamber at

Notre-Dame? Alas! the little bird trochylus maketh its nest in

the jaws of the crocodile.—Master, here is the moon re-appearing.

If only they do not perceive us. We are doing a laudable thing in

saving mademoiselle, and yet we should be hung by order of the

king if we were caught. Alas! human actions are taken by two

handles. That is branded with disgrace in one which is crowned in

another. He admires Cicero who blames Catiline. Is it not so,

master? What say you to this philosophy? I possess philosophy by

instinct, by nature, _ut apes geometriam_.—Come! no one answers

me. What unpleasant moods you two are in! I must do all the

talking alone. That is what we call a monologue in

tragedy.—_Pasque-Dieu!_ I must inform you that I have just seen

the king, Louis XI., and that I have caught this oath from

him,—_Pasque-Dieu!_ They are still making a hearty howl in the

city.—’Tis a villanous, malicious old king. He is all swathed in

furs. He still owes me the money for my epithalamium, and he came

within a nick of hanging me this evening, which would have been

very inconvenient to me.—He is niggardly towards men of merit. He

ought to read the four books of Salvien of Cologne, _Adversus

Avaritiam_. In truth! ’Tis a paltry king in his ways with men of

letters, and one who commits very barbarous cruelties. He is a

sponge, to soak money raised from the people. His saving is like

the spleen which swelleth with the leanness of all the other

members. Hence complaints against the hardness of the times

become murmurs against the prince. Under this gentle and pious

sire, the gallows crack with the hung, the blocks rot with blood,

the prisons burst like over full bellies. This king hath one hand

which grasps, and one which hangs. He is the procurator of Dame

Tax and Monsieur Gibbet. The great are despoiled of their

dignities, and the little incessantly overwhelmed with fresh

oppressions. He is an exorbitant prince. I love not this monarch.

And you, master?”

The man in black let the garrulous poet chatter on. He continued

to struggle against the violent and narrow current, which

separates the prow of the City and the stem of the island of

Notre-Dame, which we call to-day the Isle St. Louis.

“By the way, master!” continued Gringoire suddenly. “At the

moment when we arrived on the Parvis, through the enraged

outcasts, did your reverence observe that poor little devil whose

skull your deaf man was just cracking on the railing of the

gallery of the kings? I am near sighted and I could not recognize

him. Do you know who he could be?”

The stranger answered not a word. But he suddenly ceased rowing,

his arms fell as though broken, his head sank on his breast, and

la Esmeralda heard him sigh convulsively. She shuddered. She had

heard such sighs before.

The boat, abandoned to itself, floated for several minutes with

the stream. But the man in black finally recovered himself,

seized the oars once more and began to row against the current.

He doubled the point of the Isle of Notre Dame, and made for the

landing-place of the Port au Foin.

“Ah!” said Gringoire, “yonder is the Barbeau mansion.—Stay,

master, look: that group of black roofs which make such singular

angles yonder, above that heap of black, fibrous grimy, dirty

clouds, where the moon is completely crushed and spread out like

the yolk of an egg whose shell is broken.—’Tis a fine mansion.

There is a chapel crowned with a small vault full of very well

carved enrichments. Above, you can see the bell tower, very

delicately pierced. There is also a pleasant garden, which

consists of a pond, an aviary, an echo, a mall, a labyrinth, a

house for wild beasts, and a quantity of leafy alleys very

agreeable to Venus. There is also a rascal of a tree which is

called ‘the lewd,’ because it favored the pleasures of a famous

princess and a constable of France, who was a gallant and a

wit.—Alas! we poor philosophers are to a constable as a plot of

cabbages or a radish bed to the garden of the Louvre. What

matters it, after all? human life, for the great as well as for

us, is a mixture of good and evil. Pain is always by the side of

joy, the spondee by the dactyl.—Master, I must relate to you the

history of the Barbeau mansion. It ends in tragic fashion. It was

in 1319, in the reign of Philippe V., the longest reign of the

kings of France. The moral of the story is that the temptations

of the flesh are pernicious and malignant. Let us not rest our

glance too long on our neighbor’s wife, however gratified our

senses may be by her beauty. Fornication is a very libertine

thought. Adultery is a prying into the pleasures of others—Ohé!

the noise yonder is redoubling!”

The tumult around Notre-Dame was, in fact, increasing. They

listened. Cries of victory were heard with tolerable

distinctness. All at once, a hundred torches, the light of which

glittered upon the helmets of men at arms, spread over the church

at all heights, on the towers, on the galleries, on the flying

buttresses. These torches seemed to be in search of something;

and soon distant clamors reached the fugitives distinctly:—“The

gypsy! the sorceress! death to the gypsy!”

The unhappy girl dropped her head upon her hands, and the unknown

began to row furiously towards the shore. Meanwhile our

philosopher reflected. He clasped the goat in his arms, and

gently drew away from the gypsy, who pressed closer and closer to

him, as though to the only asylum which remained to her.

It is certain that Gringoire was enduring cruel perplexity. He

was thinking that the goat also, “according to existing law,”

would be hung if recaptured; which would be a great pity, poor

Djali! that he had thus two condemned creatures attached to him;

that his companion asked no better than to take charge of the

gypsy. A violent combat began between his thoughts, in which,

like the Jupiter of the Iliad, he weighed in turn the gypsy and

the goat; and he looked at them alternately with eyes moist with

tears, saying between his teeth:

“But I cannot save you both!”

A shock informed them that the boat had reached the land at last.

The uproar still filled the city. The unknown rose, approached

the gypsy, and endeavored to take her arm to assist her to

alight. She repulsed him and clung to the sleeve of Gringoire,

who, in his turn, absorbed in the goat, almost repulsed her. Then

she sprang alone from the boat. She was so troubled that she did

not know what she did or whither she was going. Thus she remained

for a moment, stunned, watching the water flow past; when she

gradually returned to her senses, she found herself alone on the

wharf with the unknown. It appears that Gringoire had taken

advantage of the moment of debarcation to slip away with the goat

into the block of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l’Eau.

The poor gypsy shivered when she beheld herself alone with this

man. She tried to speak, to cry out, to call Gringoire; her

tongue was dumb in her mouth, and no sound left her lips. All at

once she felt the stranger’s hand on hers. It was a strong, cold

hand. Her teeth chattered, she turned paler than the ray of

moonlight which illuminated her. The man spoke not a word. He

began to ascend towards the Place de Grève, holding her by the

hand.

At that moment, she had a vague feeling that destiny is an

irresistible force. She had no more resistance left in her, she

allowed herself to be dragged along, running while he walked. At

this spot the quay ascended. But it seemed to her as though she

were descending a slope.

She gazed about her on all sides. Not a single passer-by. The

quay was absolutely deserted. She heard no sound, she felt no

people moving save in the tumultuous and glowing city, from which

she was separated only by an arm of the Seine, and whence her

name reached her, mingled with cries of “Death!” The rest of

Paris was spread around her in great blocks of shadows.

Meanwhile, the stranger continued to drag her along with the same

silence and the same rapidity. She had no recollection of any of

the places where she was walking. As she passed before a lighted

window, she made an effort, drew up suddenly, and cried out,

“Help!”

The _bourgeois_ who was standing at the window opened it,

appeared there in his shirt with his lamp, stared at the quay

with a stupid air, uttered some words which she did not

understand, and closed his shutter again. It was her last gleam

of hope extinguished.

The man in black did not utter a syllable; he held her firmly,

and set out again at a quicker pace. She no longer resisted, but

followed him, completely broken.

From time to time she called together a little strength, and

said, in a voice broken by the unevenness of the pavement and the

breathlessness of their flight, “Who are you? Who are you?” He

made no reply.

They arrived thus, still keeping along the quay, at a tolerably

spacious square. It was the Grève. In the middle, a sort of

black, erect cross was visible; it was the gallows. She

recognized all this, and saw where she was.

The man halted, turned towards her and raised his cowl.

“Oh!” she stammered, almost petrified, “I knew well that it was

he again!”

It was the priest. He looked like the ghost of himself; that is

an effect of the moonlight, it seems as though one beheld only

the spectres of things in that light.

“Listen!” he said to her; and she shuddered at the sound of that

fatal voice which she had not heard for a long time. He continued

speaking with those brief and panting jerks, which betoken deep

internal convulsions. “Listen! we are here. I am going to speak

to you. This is the Grève. This is an extreme point. Destiny

gives us to one another. I am going to decide as to your life;

you will decide as to my soul. Here is a place, here is a night

beyond which one sees nothing. Then listen to me. I am going to

tell you.... In the first place, speak not to me of your Phœbus.

(As he spoke thus he paced to and fro, like a man who cannot

remain in one place, and dragged her after him.) Do not speak to

me of him. Do you see? If you utter that name, I know not what I

shall do, but it will be terrible.”

Then, like a body which recovers its centre of gravity, he became

motionless once more, but his words betrayed no less agitation.

His voice grew lower and lower.

“Do not turn your head aside thus. Listen to me. It is a serious

matter. In the first place, here is what has happened.—All this

will not be laughed at. I swear it to you.—What was I saying?

Remind me! Oh!—There is a decree of Parliament which gives you

back to the scaffold. I have just rescued you from their hands.

But they are pursuing you. Look!”

He extended his arm toward the City. The search seemed, in fact,

to be still in progress there. The uproar drew nearer; the tower

of the lieutenant’s house, situated opposite the Grève, was full

of clamors and light, and soldiers could be seen running on the

opposite quay with torches and these cries, “The gypsy! Where is

the gypsy! Death! Death!”

“You see that they are in pursuit of you, and that I am not lying

to you. I love you.—Do not open your mouth; refrain from speaking

to me rather, if it be only to tell me that you hate me. I have

made up my mind not to hear that again.—I have just saved

you.—Let me finish first. I can save you wholly. I have prepared

everything. It is yours at will. If you wish, I can do it.”

He broke off violently. “No, that is not what I should say!”

As he went with hurried step and made her hurry also, for he did

not release her, he walked straight to the gallows, and pointed

to it with his finger,—

“Choose between us two,” he said, coldly.

She tore herself from his hands and fell at the foot of the

gibbet, embracing that funereal support, then she half turned her

beautiful head, and looked at the priest over her shoulder. One

would have said that she was a Holy Virgin at the foot of the

cross. The priest remained motionless, his finger still raised

toward the gibbet, preserving his attitude like a statue. At

length the gypsy said to him,—

“It causes me less horror than you do.”

Then he allowed his arm to sink slowly, and gazed at the pavement

in profound dejection.

“If these stones could speak,” he murmured, “yes, they would say

that a very unhappy man stands here.”

He went on. The young girl, kneeling before the gallows,

enveloped in her long flowing hair, let him speak on without

interruption. He now had a gentle and plaintive accent which

contrasted sadly with the haughty harshness of his features.

“I love you. Oh! how true that is! So nothing comes of that fire

which burns my heart! Alas! young girl, night and day—yes, night

and day I tell you,—it is torture. Oh! I suffer too much, my poor

child. ’Tis a thing deserving of compassion, I assure you. You

see that I speak gently to you. I really wish that you should no

longer cherish this horror of me.—After all, if a man loves a

woman, ’tis not his fault!—Oh, my God!—What! So you will never

pardon me? You will always hate me? All is over then. It is that

which renders me evil, do you see? and horrible to myself.—You

will not even look at me! You are thinking of something else,

perchance, while I stand here and talk to you, shuddering on the

brink of eternity for both of us! Above all things, do not speak

to me of the officer!—I would cast myself at your knees, I would

kiss not your feet, but the earth which is under your feet; I

would sob like a child, I would tear from my breast not words,

but my very heart and vitals, to tell you that I love you;—all

would be useless, all!—And yet you have nothing in your heart but

what is tender and merciful. You are radiant with the most

beautiful mildness; you are wholly sweet, good, pitiful, and

charming. Alas! You cherish no ill will for any one but me alone!

Oh! what a fatality!”

He hid his face in his hands. The young girl heard him weeping.

It was for the first time. Thus erect and shaken by sobs, he was

more miserable and more suppliant than when on his knees. He wept

thus for a considerable time.

“Come!” he said, these first tears passed, “I have no more words.

I had, however, thought well as to what you would say. Now I

tremble and shiver and break down at the decisive moment, I feel

conscious of something supreme enveloping us, and I stammer. Oh!

I shall fall upon the pavement if you do not take pity on me,

pity on yourself. Do not condemn us both. If you only knew how

much I love you! What a heart is mine! Oh! what desertion of all

virtue! What desperate abandonment of myself! A doctor, I mock at

science; a gentleman, I tarnish my own name; a priest, I make of

the missal a pillow of sensuality, I spit in the face of my God!

all this for thee, enchantress! to be more worthy of thy hell!

And you will not have the apostate! Oh! let me tell you all! more

still, something more horrible, oh! Yet more horrible!...”

As he uttered these last words, his air became utterly

distracted. He was silent for a moment, and resumed, as though

speaking to himself, and in a strong voice,—

“Cain, what hast thou done with thy brother?”

There was another silence, and he went on—

“What have I done with him, Lord? I received him, I reared him, I

nourished him, I loved him, I idolized him, and I have slain him!

Yes, Lord, they have just dashed his head before my eyes on the

stone of thine house, and it is because of me, because of this

woman, because of her.”

His eye was wild. His voice grew ever weaker; he repeated many

times, yet, mechanically, at tolerably long intervals, like a

bell prolonging its last vibration: “Because of her.—Because of

her.”

Then his tongue no longer articulated any perceptible sound; but

his lips still moved. All at once he sank together, like

something crumbling, and lay motionless on the earth, with his

head on his knees.

A touch from the young girl, as she drew her foot from under him,

brought him to himself. He passed his hand slowly over his hollow

cheeks, and gazed for several moments at his fingers, which were

wet, “What!” he murmured, “I have wept!”

And turning suddenly to the gypsy with unspeakable anguish,—

“Alas! you have looked coldly on at my tears! Child, do you know

that those tears are of lava? Is it indeed true? Nothing touches

when it comes from the man whom one does not love. If you were to

see me die, you would laugh. Oh! I do not wish to see you die!

One word! A single word of pardon! Say not that you love me, say

only that you will do it; that will suffice; I will save you. If

not—oh! the hour is passing. I entreat you by all that is sacred,

do not wait until I shall have turned to stone again, like that

gibbet which also claims you! Reflect that I hold the destinies

of both of us in my hand, that I am mad,—it is terrible,—that I

may let all go to destruction, and that there is beneath us a

bottomless abyss, unhappy girl, whither my fall will follow yours

to all eternity! One word of kindness! Say one word! only one

word!”

She opened her mouth to answer him. He flung himself on his knees

to receive with adoration the word, possibly a tender one, which

was on the point of issuing from her lips. She said to him, “You

are an assassin!”

The priest clasped her in his arms with fury, and began to laugh

with an abominable laugh.

“Well, yes, an assassin!” he said, “and I will have you. You will

not have me for your slave, you shall have me for your master. I

will have you! I have a den, whither I will drag you. You will

follow me, you will be obliged to follow me, or I will deliver

you up! You must die, my beauty, or be mine! belong to the

priest! belong to the apostate! belong to the assassin! this very

night, do you hear? Come! joy; kiss me, mad girl! The tomb or my

bed!”

His eyes sparkled with impurity and rage. His lewd lips reddened

the young girl’s neck. She struggled in his arms. He covered her

with furious kisses.

“Do not bite me, monster!” she cried. “Oh! the foul, odious monk!

leave me! I will tear out thy ugly gray hair and fling it in thy

face by the handful!”

He reddened, turned pale, then released her and gazed at her with

a gloomy air. She thought herself victorious, and continued,—

“I tell you that I belong to my Phœbus, that ’tis Phœbus whom I

love, that ’tis Phœbus who is handsome! you are old, priest! you

are ugly! Begone!”

He gave vent to a horrible cry, like the wretch to whom a hot

iron is applied. “Die, then!” he said, gnashing his teeth. She

saw his terrible look and tried to fly. He caught her once more,

he shook her, he flung her on the ground, and walked with rapid

strides towards the corner of the Tour-Roland, dragging her after

him along the pavement by her beautiful hands.

On arriving there, he turned to her,—

“For the last time, will you be mine?”

She replied with emphasis,—

“No!”

Then he cried in a loud voice,—

“Gudule! Gudule! here is the gypsy! take your vengeance!”

The young girl felt herself seized suddenly by the elbow. She

looked. A fleshless arm was stretched from an opening in the

wall, and held her like a hand of iron.

“Hold her well,” said the priest; “’tis the gypsy escaped.

Release her not. I will go in search of the sergeants. You shall

see her hanged.”

A guttural laugh replied from the interior of the wall to these

bloody words—“Hah! hah! hah!”—The gypsy watched the priest retire

in the direction of the Pont Notre-Dame. A cavalcade was heard in

that direction.

The young girl had recognized the spiteful recluse. Panting with

terror, she tried to disengage herself. She writhed, she made

many starts of agony and despair, but the other held her with

incredible strength. The lean and bony fingers which bruised her,

clenched on her flesh and met around it. One would have said that

this hand was riveted to her arm. It was more than a chain, more

than a fetter, more than a ring of iron, it was a living pair of

pincers endowed with intelligence, which emerged from the wall.

She fell back against the wall exhausted, and then the fear of

death took possession of her. She thought of the beauty of life,

of youth, of the view of heaven, the aspects of nature, of her

love for Phœbus, of all that was vanishing and all that was

approaching, of the priest who was denouncing her, of the

headsman who was to come, of the gallows which was there. Then

she felt terror mount to the very roots of her hair and she heard

the mocking laugh of the recluse, saying to her in a very low

tone: “Hah! hah! hah! you are going to be hanged!”

She turned a dying look towards the window, and she beheld the

fierce face of the sacked nun through the bars.

“What have I done to you?” she said, almost lifeless.

The recluse did not reply, but began to mumble with a singsong

irritated, mocking intonation: “Daughter of Egypt! daughter of

Egypt! daughter of Egypt!”

The unhappy Esmeralda dropped her head beneath her flowing hair,

comprehending that it was no human being she had to deal with.

All at once the recluse exclaimed, as though the gypsy’s question

had taken all this time to reach her brain,—“‘What have you done

to me?’ you say! Ah! what have you done to me, gypsy! Well!

listen.—I had a child! you see! I had a child! a child, I tell

you!—a pretty little girl!—my Agnès!” she went on wildly, kissing

something in the dark.—“Well! do you see, daughter of Egypt? they

took my child from me; they stole my child; they ate my child.

That is what you have done to me.”

The young girl replied like a lamb,—

“Alas! perchance I was not born then!”

“Oh! yes!” returned the recluse, “you must have been born. You

were among them. She would be the same age as you! so!—I have

been here fifteen years; fifteen years have I suffered; fifteen

years have I prayed; fifteen years have I beat my head against

these four walls—I tell you that ’twas the gypsies who stole her

from me, do you hear that? and who ate her with their teeth.—Have

you a heart? imagine a child playing, a child sucking; a child

sleeping. It is so innocent a thing!—Well! that, that is what

they took from me, what they killed. The good God knows it well!

To-day, it is my turn; I am going to eat the gypsy.—Oh! I would

bite you well, if the bars did not prevent me! My head is too

large!—Poor little one! while she was asleep! And if they woke

her up when they took her, in vain she might cry; I was not

there!—Ah! gypsy mothers, you devoured my child! come see your

own.”

Then she began to laugh or to gnash her teeth, for the two things

resembled each other in that furious face. The day was beginning

to dawn. An ashy gleam dimly lighted this scene, and the gallows

grew more and more distinct in the square. On the other side, in

the direction of the bridge of Notre-Dame, the poor condemned

girl fancied that she heard the sound of cavalry approaching.

“Madam,” she cried, clasping her hands and falling on her knees,

dishevelled, distracted, mad with fright; “madam! have pity! They

are coming. I have done nothing to you. Would you wish to see me

die in this horrible fashion before your very eyes? You are

pitiful, I am sure. It is too frightful. Let me make my escape.

Release me! Mercy. I do not wish to die like that!”

“Give me back my child!” said the recluse.

“Mercy! Mercy!”

“Give me back my child!”

“Release me, in the name of heaven!”

“Give me back my child!”

Again the young girl fell; exhausted, broken, and having already

the glassy eye of a person in the grave.

“Alas!” she faltered, “you seek your child, I seek my parents.”

“Give me back my little Agnès!” pursued Gudule. “You do not know

where she is? Then die!—I will tell you. I was a woman of the

town, I had a child, they took my child. It was the gypsies. You

see plainly that you must die. When your mother, the gypsy, comes

to reclaim you, I shall say to her: ‘Mother, look at that

gibbet!—Or, give me back my child. Do you know where she is, my

little daughter? Stay! I will show you. Here is her shoe, all

that is left me of her. Do you know where its mate is? If you

know, tell me, and if it is only at the other end of the world, I

will crawl to it on my knees.”

As she spoke thus, with her other arm extended through the

window, she showed the gypsy the little embroidered shoe. It was

already light enough to distinguish its shape and its colors.

“Let me see that shoe,” said the gypsy, quivering. “God! God!”

And at the same time, with her hand which was at liberty, she

quickly opened the little bag ornamented with green glass, which

she wore about her neck.

“Go on, go on!” grumbled Gudule, “search your demon’s amulet!”

All at once, she stopped short, trembled in every limb, and cried

in a voice which proceeded from the very depths of her being: “My

daughter!”

The gypsy had just drawn from the bag a little shoe absolutely

similar to the other. To this little shoe was attached a

parchment on which was inscribed this charm,—

Quand le pareil retrouveras

Ta mère te tendras les bras.[68]

Quicker than a flash of lightning, the recluse had laid the two

shoes together, had read the parchment and had put close to the

bars of the window her face beaming with celestial joy as she

cried,—

“My daughter! my daughter!”

“My mother!” said the gypsy.

Here we are unequal to the task of depicting the scene. The wall

and the iron bars were between them. “Oh! the wall!” cried the

recluse. “Oh! to see her and not to embrace her! Your hand! your

hand!”

The young girl passed her arm through the opening; the recluse

threw herself on that hand, pressed her lips to it and there

remained, buried in that kiss, giving no other sign of life than

a sob which heaved her breast from time to time. In the

meanwhile, she wept in torrents, in silence, in the dark, like a

rain at night. The poor mother poured out in floods upon that

adored hand the dark and deep well of tears, which lay within

her, and into which her grief had filtered, drop by drop, for

fifteen years.

All at once she rose, flung aside her long gray hair from her

brow, and without uttering a word, began to shake the bars of her

cage cell, with both hands, more furiously than a lioness. The

bars held firm. Then she went to seek in the corner of her cell a

huge paving stone, which served her as a pillow, and launched it

against them with such violence that one of the bars broke,

emitting thousands of sparks. A second blow completely shattered

the old iron cross which barricaded the window. Then with her two

hands, she finished breaking and removing the rusted stumps of

the bars. There are moments when woman’s hands possess superhuman

strength.

A passage broken, less than a minute was required for her to

seize her daughter by the middle of her body, and draw her into

her cell. “Come let me draw you out of the abyss,” she murmured.

When her daughter was inside the cell, she laid her gently on the

ground, then raised her up again, and bearing her in her arms as

though she were still only her little Agnès, she walked to and

fro in her little room, intoxicated, frantic, joyous, crying out,

singing, kissing her daughter, talking to her, bursting into

laughter, melting into tears, all at once and with vehemence.

“My daughter! my daughter!” she said. “I have my daughter! here

she is! The good God has given her back to me! Ha you! come all

of you! Is there any one there to see that I have my daughter?

Lord Jesus, how beautiful she is! You have made me wait fifteen

years, my good God, but it was in order to give her back to me

beautiful.—Then the gypsies did not eat her! Who said so? My

little daughter! my little daughter! Kiss me. Those good gypsies!

I love the gypsies!—It is really you! That was what made my heart

leap every time that you passed by. And I took that for hatred!

Forgive me, my Agnès, forgive me. You thought me very malicious,

did you not? I love you. Have you still the little mark on your

neck? Let us see. She still has it. Oh! you are beautiful! It was

I who gave you those big eyes, mademoiselle. Kiss me. I love you.

It is nothing to me that other mothers have children; I scorn

them now. They have only to come and see. Here is mine. See her

neck, her eyes, her hair, her hands. Find me anything as

beautiful as that! Oh! I promise you she will have lovers, that

she will! I have wept for fifteen years. All my beauty has

departed and has fallen to her. Kiss me.”

She addressed to her a thousand other extravagant remarks, whose

accent constituted their sole beauty, disarranged the poor girl’s

garments even to the point of making her blush, smoothed her

silky hair with her hand, kissed her foot, her knee, her brow,

her eyes, was in raptures over everything. The young girl let her

have her way, repeating at intervals and very low and with

infinite tenderness, “My mother!”

“Do you see, my little girl,” resumed the recluse, interspersing

her words with kisses, “I shall love you dearly? We will go away

from here. We are going to be very happy. I have inherited

something in Reims, in our country. You know Reims? Ah! no, you

do not know it; you were too small! If you only knew how pretty

you were at the age of four months! Tiny feet that people came

even from Epernay, which is seven leagues away, to see! We shall

have a field, a house. I will put you to sleep in my bed. My God!

my God! who would believe this? I have my daughter!”

“Oh, my mother!” said the young girl, at length finding strength

to speak in her emotion, “the gypsy woman told me so. There was a

good gypsy of our band who died last year, and who always cared

for me like a nurse. It was she who placed this little bag about

my neck. She always said to me: ‘Little one, guard this jewel

well! ’Tis a treasure. It will cause thee to find thy mother once

again. Thou wearest thy mother about thy neck.’—The gypsy

predicted it!”

The sacked nun again pressed her daughter in her arms.

“Come, let me kiss you! You say that prettily. When we are in the

country, we will place these little shoes on an infant Jesus in

the church. We certainly owe that to the good, holy Virgin. What

a pretty voice you have! When you spoke to me just now, it was

music! Ah! my Lord God! I have found my child again! But is this

story credible? Nothing will kill one—or I should have died of

joy.”

And then she began to clap her hands again and to laugh and to

cry out: “We are going to be so happy!”

At that moment, the cell resounded with the clang of arms and a

galloping of horses which seemed to be coming from the Pont

Notre-Dame, amid advancing farther and farther along the quay.

The gypsy threw herself with anguish into the arms of the sacked

nun.

“Save me! save me! mother! they are coming!”

“Oh, heaven! what are you saying? I had forgotten! They are in

pursuit of you! What have you done?”

“I know not,” replied the unhappy child; “but I am condemned to

die.”

“To die!” said Gudule, staggering as though struck by lightning;

“to die!” she repeated slowly, gazing at her daughter with

staring eyes.

“Yes, mother,” replied the frightened young girl, “they want to

kill me. They are coming to seize me. That gallows is for me!

Save me! save me! They are coming! Save me!”

The recluse remained for several moments motionless and

petrified, then she moved her head in sign of doubt, and suddenly

giving vent to a burst of laughter, but with that terrible laugh

which had come back to her,—

“Ho! ho! no! ’tis a dream of which you are telling me. Ah, yes! I

lost her, that lasted fifteen years, and then I found her again,

and that lasted a minute! And they would take her from me again!

And now, when she is beautiful, when she is grown up, when she

speaks to me, when she loves me; it is now that they would come

to devour her, before my very eyes, and I her mother! Oh! no!

these things are not possible. The good God does not permit such

things as that.”

Here the cavalcade appeared to halt, and a voice was heard to say

in the distance,—

“This way, Messire Tristan! The priest says that we shall find

her at the Rat-Hole.” The noise of the horses began again.

The recluse sprang to her feet with a shriek of despair. “Fly!

fly! my child! All comes back to me. You are right. It is your

death! Horror! Maledictions! Fly!”

She thrust her head through the window, and withdrew it again

hastily.

“Remain,” she said, in a low, curt, and lugubrious tone, as she

pressed the hand of the gypsy, who was more dead than alive.

“Remain! Do not breathe! There are soldiers everywhere. You

cannot get out. It is too light.”

Her eyes were dry and burning. She remained silent for a moment;

but she paced the cell hurriedly, and halted now and then to

pluck out handfuls of her gray hairs, which she afterwards tore

with her teeth.

Suddenly she said: “They draw near. I will speak with them. Hide

yourself in this corner. They will not see you. I will tell them

that you have made your escape. That I released you, i’ faith!”

She set her daughter (down for she was still carrying her), in

one corner of the cell which was not visible from without. She

made her crouch down, arranged her carefully so that neither foot

nor hand projected from the shadow, untied her black hair which

she spread over her white robe to conceal it, placed in front of

her her jug and her paving stone, the only articles of furniture

which she possessed, imagining that this jug and stone would hide

her. And when this was finished she became more tranquil, and

knelt down to pray. The day, which was only dawning, still left

many shadows in the Rat-Hole.

At that moment, the voice of the priest, that infernal voice,

passed very close to the cell, crying,—

“This way, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers.”

At that name, at that voice, la Esmeralda, crouching in her

corner, made a movement.

“Do not stir!” said Gudule.

She had barely finished when a tumult of men, swords, and horses

halted around the cell. The mother rose quickly and went to post

herself before her window, in order to stop it up. She beheld a

large troop of armed men, both horse and foot, drawn up on the

Grève.

The commander dismounted, and came toward her.

“Old woman!” said this man, who had an atrocious face, “we are in

search of a witch to hang her; we were told that you had her.”

The poor mother assumed as indifferent an air as she could, and

replied,—

“I know not what you mean.”

The other resumed, “_Tête Dieu!_ What was it that frightened

archdeacon said? Where is he?”

“Monseigneur,” said a soldier, “he has disappeared.”

“Come, now, old madwoman,” began the commander again, “do not

lie. A sorceress was given in charge to you. What have you done

with her?”

The recluse did not wish to deny all, for fear of awakening

suspicion, and replied in a sincere and surly tone,—

“If you are speaking of a big young girl who was put into my

hands a while ago, I will tell you that she bit me, and that I

released her. There! Leave me in peace.”

The commander made a grimace of disappointment. “Don’t lie to me,

old spectre!” said he. “My name is Tristan l’Hermite, and I am

the king’s gossip. Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?” He added, as

he glanced at the Place de Grève around him, “’Tis a name which

has an echo here.”

“You might be Satan the Hermit,” replied Gudule, who was

regaining hope, “but I should have nothing else to say to you,

and I should never be afraid of you.”

“_Tête-Dieu_,” said Tristan, “here is a crone! Ah! So the witch

girl hath fled! And in which direction did she go?” Gudule

replied in a careless tone,—

“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”

Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare

to set out on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once

more.

“Monseigneur,” suddenly said an archer, “ask the old elf why the

bars of her window are broken in this manner.”

This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable

mother. Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.

“They have always been thus,” she stammered.

“Bah!” retorted the archer, “only yesterday they still formed a

fine black cross, which inspired devotion.”

Tristan cast a sidelong glance at the recluse.

“I think the old dame is getting confused!”

The unfortunate woman felt that all depended on her

self-possession, and, although with death in her soul, she began

to grin. Mothers possess such strength.

“Bah!” said she, “the man is drunk. ’Tis more than a year since

the tail of a stone cart dashed against my window and broke in

the grating. And how I cursed the carter, too.”

“’Tis true,” said another archer, “I was there.”

Always and everywhere people are to be found who have seen

everything. This unexpected testimony from the archer

re-encouraged the recluse, whom this interrogatory was forcing to

cross an abyss on the edge of a knife. But she was condemned to a

perpetual alternative of hope and alarm.

“If it was a cart which did it,” retorted the first soldier, “the

stumps of the bars should be thrust inwards, while they actually

are pushed outwards.”

“Hé! hé!” said Tristan to the soldier, “you have the nose of an

inquisitor of the Châtelet. Reply to what he says, old woman.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, driven to bay, and in a voice that

was full of tears in despite of her efforts, “I swear to you,

monseigneur, that ’twas a cart which broke those bars. You hear

the man who saw it. And then, what has that to do with your

gypsy?”

“Hum!” growled Tristan.

“The devil!” went on the soldier, flattered by the provost’s

praise, “these fractures of the iron are perfectly fresh.”

Tristan tossed his head. She turned pale.

“How long ago, say you, did the cart do it?”

“A month, a fortnight, perhaps, monseigneur, I know not.”

“She first said more than a year,” observed the soldier.

“That is suspicious,” said the provost.

“Monseigneur!” she cried, still pressed against the opening, and

trembling lest suspicion should lead them to thrust their heads

through and look into her cell; “monseigneur, I swear to you that

’twas a cart which broke this grating. I swear it to you by the

angels of paradise. If it was not a cart, may I be eternally

damned, and I reject God!”

“You put a great deal of heat into that oath;” said Tristan, with

his inquisitorial glance.

The poor woman felt her assurance vanishing more and more. She

had reached the point of blundering, and she comprehended with

terror that she was saying what she ought not to have said.

Here another soldier came up, crying,—

“Monsieur, the old hag lies. The sorceress did not flee through

the Rue de Mouton. The street chain has remained stretched all

night, and the chain guard has seen no one pass.”

Tristan, whose face became more sinister with every moment,

addressed the recluse,—

“What have you to say to that?”

She tried to make head against this new incident,

“That I do not know, monseigneur; that I may have been mistaken.

I believe, in fact, that she crossed the water.”

“That is in the opposite direction,” said the provost, “and it is

not very likely that she would wish to re-enter the city, where

she was being pursued. You are lying, old woman.”

“And then,” added the first soldier, “there is no boat either on

this side of the stream or on the other.”

“She swam across,” replied the recluse, defending her ground foot

by foot.

“Do women swim?” said the soldier.

“_Tête Dieu!_ old woman! You are lying!” repeated Tristan

angrily. “I have a good mind to abandon that sorceress and take

you. A quarter of an hour of torture will, perchance, draw the

truth from your throat. Come! You are to follow us.”

She seized on these words with avidity.

“As you please, monseigneur. Do it. Do it. Torture. I am willing.

Take me away. Quick, quick! let us set out at once!—During that

time,” she said to herself, “my daughter will make her escape.”

“’S death!” said the provost, “what an appetite for the rack! I

understand not this madwoman at all.”

An old, gray-haired sergeant of the guard stepped out of the

ranks, and addressing the provost,—

“Mad in sooth, monseigneur. If she released the gypsy, it was not

her fault, for she loves not the gypsies. I have been of the

watch these fifteen years, and I hear her every evening cursing

the Bohemian women with endless imprecations. If the one of whom

we are in pursuit is, as I suppose, the little dancer with the

goat, she detests that one above all the rest.”

Gudule made an effort and said,—

“That one above all.”

The unanimous testimony of the men of the watch confirmed the old

sergeant’s words to the provost. Tristan l’Hermite, in despair at

extracting anything from the recluse, turned his back on her, and

with unspeakable anxiety she beheld him direct his course slowly

towards his horse.

“Come!” he said, between his teeth, “March on! let us set out

again on the quest. I shall not sleep until that gypsy is

hanged.”

But he still hesitated for some time before mounting his horse.

Gudule palpitated between life and death, as she beheld him cast

about the Place that uneasy look of a hunting dog which

instinctively feels that the lair of the beast is close to him,

and is loath to go away. At length he shook his head and leaped

into his saddle. Gudule’s horribly compressed heart now dilated,

and she said in a low voice, as she cast a glance at her

daughter, whom she had not ventured to look at while they were

there, “Saved!”

The poor child had remained all this time in her corner, without

breathing, without moving, with the idea of death before her. She

had lost nothing of the scene between Gudule and Tristan, and the

anguish of her mother had found its echo in her heart. She had

heard all the successive snappings of the thread by which she

hung suspended over the gulf; twenty times she had fancied that

she saw it break, and at last she began to breathe again and to

feel her foot on firm ground. At that moment she heard a voice

saying to the provost: “_Corbœuf!_ Monsieur le Prevôt, ’tis no

affair of mine, a man of arms, to hang witches. The rabble of the

populace is suppressed. I leave you to attend to the matter

alone. You will allow me to rejoin my company, who are waiting

for their captain.”

The voice was that of Phœbus de Châteaupers; that which took

place within her was ineffable. He was there, her friend, her

protector, her support, her refuge, her Phœbus. She rose, and

before her mother could prevent her, she had rushed to the

window, crying,—

“Phœbus! aid me, my Phœbus!”

Phœbus was no longer there. He had just turned the corner of the

Rue de la Coutellerie at a gallop. But Tristan had not yet taken

his departure.

The recluse rushed upon her daughter with a roar of agony. She

dragged her violently back, digging her nails into her neck. A

tigress mother does not stand on trifles. But it was too late.

Tristan had seen.

“Hé! hé!” he exclaimed with a laugh which laid bare all his teeth

and made his face resemble the muzzle of a wolf, “two mice in the

trap!”

“I suspected as much,” said the soldier.

Tristan clapped him on the shoulder,—

“You are a good cat! Come!” he added, “where is Henriet Cousin?”

A man who had neither the garments nor the air of a soldier,

stepped from the ranks. He wore a costume half gray, half brown,

flat hair, leather sleeves, and carried a bundle of ropes in his

huge hand. This man always attended Tristan, who always attended

Louis XI. “Friend,” said Tristan l’Hermite, “I presume that this

is the sorceress of whom we are in search. You will hang me this

one. Have you your ladder?”

“There is one yonder, under the shed of the Pillar-House,”

replied the man. “Is it on this justice that the thing is to be

done?” he added, pointing to the stone gibbet.

“Yes.”

“Ho, hé!” continued the man with a huge laugh, which was still

more brutal than that of the provost, “we shall not have far to

go.”

“Make haste!” said Tristan, “you shall laugh afterwards.”

In the meantime, the recluse had not uttered another word since

Tristan had seen her daughter and all hope was lost. She had

flung the poor gypsy, half dead, into the corner of the cellar,

and had placed herself once more at the window with both hands

resting on the angle of the sill like two claws. In this attitude

she was seen to cast upon all those soldiers her glance which had

become wild and frantic once more. At the moment when Rennet

Cousin approached her cell, she showed him so savage a face that

he shrank back.

“Monseigneur,” he said, returning to the provost, “which am I to

take?”

“The young one.”

“So much the better, for the old one seemeth difficult.”

“Poor little dancer with the goat!” said the old sergeant of the

watch.

Rennet Cousin approached the window again. The mother’s eyes made

his own droop. He said with a good deal of timidity,—

“Madam”—

She interrupted him in a very low but furious voice,—

“What do you ask?”

“It is not you,” he said, “it is the other.”

“What other?”

“The young one.”

She began to shake her head, crying,—

“There is no one! there is no one! there is no one!”

“Yes, there is!” retorted the hangman, “and you know it well. Let

me take the young one. I have no wish to harm you.”

She said, with a strange sneer,—

“Ah! so you have no wish to harm me!”

“Let me have the other, madam; ’tis monsieur the provost who

wills it.”

She repeated with a look of madness,—

“There is no one here.”

“I tell you that there is!” replied the executioner. “We have all

seen that there are two of you.”

“Look then!” said the recluse, with a sneer. “Thrust your head

through the window.”

The executioner observed the mother’s finger-nails and dared not.

“Make haste!” shouted Tristan, who had just ranged his troops in

a circle round the Rat-Hole, and who sat on his horse beside the

gallows.

Rennet returned once more to the provost in great embarrassment.

He had flung his rope on the ground, and was twisting his hat

between his hands with an awkward air.

“Monseigneur,” he asked, “where am I to enter?”

“By the door.”

“There is none.”

“By the window.”

“’Tis too small.”

“Make it larger,” said Tristan angrily. “Have you not pickaxes?”

The mother still looked on steadfastly from the depths of her

cavern. She no longer hoped for anything, she no longer knew what

she wished, except that she did not wish them to take her

daughter.

Rennet Cousin went in search of the chest of tools for the night

man, under the shed of the Pillar-House. He drew from it also the

double ladder, which he immediately set up against the gallows.

Five or six of the provost’s men armed themselves with picks and

crowbars, and Tristan betook himself, in company with them,

towards the window.

“Old woman,” said the provost, in a severe tone, “deliver up to

us that girl quietly.”

She looked at him like one who does not understand.

“_Tête Dieu!_” continued Tristan, “why do you try to prevent this

sorceress being hung as it pleases the king?”

The wretched woman began to laugh in her wild way.

“Why? She is my daughter.”

The tone in which she pronounced these words made even Henriet

Cousin shudder.

“I am sorry for that,” said the provost, “but it is the king’s

good pleasure.”

She cried, redoubling her terrible laugh,—

“What is your king to me? I tell you that she is my daughter!”

“Pierce the wall,” said Tristan.

In order to make a sufficiently wide opening, it sufficed to

dislodge one course of stone below the window. When the mother

heard the picks and crowbars mining her fortress, she uttered a

terrible cry; then she began to stride about her cell with

frightful swiftness, a wild beasts’ habit which her cage had

imparted to her. She no longer said anything, but her eyes

flamed. The soldiers were chilled to the very soul.

All at once she seized her paving stone, laughed, and hurled it

with both fists upon the workmen. The stone, badly flung (for her

hands trembled), touched no one, and fell short under the feet of

Tristan’s horse. She gnashed her teeth.

In the meantime, although the sun had not yet risen, it was broad

daylight; a beautiful rose color enlivened the ancient, decayed

chimneys of the Pillar-House. It was the hour when the earliest

windows of the great city open joyously on the roofs. Some

workmen, a few fruit-sellers on their way to the markets on their

asses, began to traverse the Grève; they halted for a moment

before this group of soldiers clustered round the Rat-Hole,

stared at it with an air of astonishment and passed on.

The recluse had gone and seated herself by her daughter, covering

her with her body, in front of her, with staring eyes, listening

to the poor child, who did not stir, but who kept murmuring in a

low voice, these words only, “Phœbus! Phœbus!” In proportion as

the work of the demolishers seemed to advance, the mother

mechanically retreated, and pressed the young girl closer and

closer to the wall. All at once, the recluse beheld the stone

(for she was standing guard and never took her eyes from it),

move, and she heard Tristan’s voice encouraging the workers. Then

she aroused from the depression into which she had fallen during

the last few moments, cried out, and as she spoke, her voice now

rent the ear like a saw, then stammered as though all kind of

maledictions were pressing to her lips to burst forth at once.

“Ho! ho! ho! Why this is terrible! You are ruffians! Are you

really going to take my daughter? Oh! the cowards! Oh! the

hangman lackeys! the wretched, blackguard assassins! Help! help!

fire! Will they take my child from me like this? Who is it then

who is called the good God?”

Then, addressing Tristan, foaming at the mouth, with wild eyes,

all bristling and on all fours like a female panther,—

“Draw near and take my daughter! Do not you understand that this

woman tells you that she is my daughter? Do you know what it is

to have a child? Eh! lynx, have you never lain with your female?

have you never had a cub? and if you have little ones, when they

howl have you nothing in your vitals that moves?”

“Throw down the stone,” said Tristan; “it no longer holds.”

The crowbars raised the heavy course. It was, as we have said,

the mother’s last bulwark.

She threw herself upon it, she tried to hold it back; she

scratched the stone with her nails, but the massive block, set in

movement by six men, escaped her and glided gently to the ground

along the iron levers.

The mother, perceiving an entrance effected, fell down in front

of the opening, barricading the breach with her body, beating the

pavement with her head, and shrieking with a voice rendered so

hoarse by fatigue that it was hardly audible,—

“Help! fire! fire!”

“Now take the wench,” said Tristan, still impassive.

The mother gazed at the soldiers in such formidable fashion that

they were more inclined to retreat than to advance.

“Come, now,” repeated the provost. “Here you, Rennet Cousin!”

No one took a step.

The provost swore,—

“_Tête de Christ!_ my men of war! afraid of a woman!”

“Monseigneur,” said Rennet, “do you call that a woman?”

“She has the mane of a lion,” said another.

“Come!” repeated the provost, “the gap is wide enough. Enter

three abreast, as at the breach of Pontoise. Let us make an end

of it, death of Mahom! I will make two pieces of the first man

who draws back!”

Placed between the provost and the mother, both threatening, the

soldiers hesitated for a moment, then took their resolution, and

advanced towards the Rat-Hole.

When the recluse saw this, she rose abruptly on her knees, flung

aside her hair from her face, then let her thin flayed hands fall

by her side. Then great tears fell, one by one, from her eyes;

they flowed down her cheeks through a furrow, like a torrent

through a bed which it has hollowed for itself.

At the same time she began to speak, but in a voice so

supplicating, so gentle, so submissive, so heartrending, that

more than one old convict-warder around Tristan who must have

devoured human flesh wiped his eyes.

“Messeigneurs! messieurs the sergeants, one word. There is one

thing which I must say to you. She is my daughter, do you see? my

dear little daughter whom I had lost! Listen. It is quite a

history. Consider that I knew the sergeants very well. They were

always good to me in the days when the little boys threw stones

at me, because I led a life of pleasure. Do you see? You will

leave me my child when you know! I was a poor woman of the town.

It was the Bohemians who stole her from me. And I kept her shoe

for fifteen years. Stay, here it is. That was the kind of foot

which she had. At Reims! La Chantefleurie! Rue Folle-Peine!

Perchance, you knew about that. It was I. In your youth, then,

there was a merry time, when one passed good hours. You will take

pity on me, will you not, gentlemen? The gypsies stole her from

me; they hid her from me for fifteen years. I thought her dead.

Fancy, my good friends, believed her to be dead. I have passed

fifteen years here in this cellar, without a fire in winter. It

is hard. The poor, dear little shoe! I have cried so much that

the good God has heard me. This night he has given my daughter

back to me. It is a miracle of the good God. She was not dead.

You will not take her from me, I am sure. If it were myself, I

would say nothing; but she, a child of sixteen! Leave her time to

see the sun! What has she done to you? nothing at all. Nor have

I. If you did but know that she is all I have, that I am old,

that she is a blessing which the Holy Virgin has sent to me! And

then, you are all so good! You did not know that she was my

daughter; but now you do know it. Oh! I love her! Monsieur, the

grand provost. I would prefer a stab in my own vitals to a

scratch on her finger! You have the air of such a good lord! What

I have told you explains the matter, does it not? Oh! if you have

had a mother, monseigneur! you are the captain, leave me my

child! Consider that I pray you on my knees, as one prays to

Jesus Christ! I ask nothing of any one; I am from Reims,

gentlemen; I own a little field inherited from my uncle, Mahiet

Pradon. I am no beggar. I wish nothing, but I do want my child!

oh! I want to keep my child! The good God, who is the master, has

not given her back to me for nothing! The king! you say the king!

It would not cause him much pleasure to have my little daughter

killed! And then, the king is good! she is my daughter! she is my

own daughter! She belongs not to the king! she is not yours! I

want to go away! we want to go away! and when two women pass, one

a mother and the other a daughter, one lets them go! Let us pass!

we belong in Reims. Oh! you are very good, messieurs the

sergeants, I love you all. You will not take my dear little one,

it is impossible! It is utterly impossible, is it not? My child,

my child!”

We will not try to give an idea of her gestures, her tone, of the

tears which she swallowed as she spoke, of the hands which she

clasped and then wrung, of the heart-breaking smiles, of the

swimming glances, of the groans, the sighs, the miserable and

affecting cries which she mingled with her disordered, wild, and

incoherent words. When she became silent Tristan l’Hermite

frowned, but it was to conceal a tear which welled up in his

tiger’s eye. He conquered this weakness, however, and said in a

curt tone,—

“The king wills it.”

Then he bent down to the ear of Rennet Cousin, and said to him in

a very low tone,—

“Make an end of it quickly!” Possibly, the redoubtable provost

felt his heart also failing him.

The executioner and the sergeants entered the cell. The mother

offered no resistance, only she dragged herself towards her

daughter and threw herself bodily upon her. The gypsy beheld the

soldiers approach. The horror of death reanimated her,—

“Mother!” she shrieked, in a tone of indescribable distress,

“Mother! they are coming! defend me!”

“Yes, my love, I am defending you!” replied the mother, in a

dying voice; and clasping her closely in her arms, she covered

her with kisses. The two lying thus on the earth, the mother upon

the daughter, presented a spectacle worthy of pity.

Rennet Cousin grasped the young girl by the middle of her body,

beneath her beautiful shoulders. When she felt that hand, she

cried, “Heuh!” and fainted. The executioner who was shedding

large tears upon her, drop by drop, was about to bear her away in

his arms. He tried to detach the mother, who had, so to speak,

knotted her hands around her daughter’s waist; but she clung so

strongly to her child, that it was impossible to separate them.

Then Rennet Cousin dragged the young girl outside the cell, and

the mother after her. The mother’s eyes were also closed.

At that moment, the sun rose, and there was already on the Place

a fairly numerous assembly of people who looked on from a

distance at what was being thus dragged along the pavement to the

gibbet. For that was Provost Tristan’s way at executions. He had

a passion for preventing the approach of the curious.

There was no one at the windows. Only at a distance, at the

summit of that one of the towers of Notre-Dame which commands the

Grève, two men outlined in black against the light morning sky,

and who seemed to be looking on, were visible.

Rennet Cousin paused at the foot of the fatal ladder, with that

which he was dragging, and, barely breathing, with so much pity

did the thing inspire him, he passed the rope around the lovely

neck of the young girl. The unfortunate child felt the horrible

touch of the hemp. She raised her eyelids, and saw the fleshless

arm of the stone gallows extended above her head. Then she shook

herself and shrieked in a loud and heartrending voice: “No! no! I

will not!” Her mother, whose head was buried and concealed in her

daughter’s garments, said not a word; only her whole body could

be seen to quiver, and she was heard to redouble her kisses on

her child. The executioner took advantage of this moment to

hastily loose the arms with which she clasped the condemned girl.

Either through exhaustion or despair, she let him have his way.

Then he took the young girl on his shoulder, from which the

charming creature hung, gracefully bent over his large head. Then

he set his foot on the ladder in order to ascend.

At that moment, the mother who was crouching on the pavement,

opened her eyes wide. Without uttering a cry, she raised herself

erect with a terrible expression; then she flung herself upon the

hand of the executioner, like a beast on its prey, and bit it. It

was done like a flash of lightning. The headsman howled with

pain. Those near by rushed up. With difficulty they withdrew his

bleeding hand from the mother’s teeth. She preserved a profound

silence. They thrust her back with much brutality, and noticed

that her head fell heavily on the pavement. They raised her, she

fell back again. She was dead.

The executioner, who had not loosed his hold on the young girl,

began to ascend the ladder once more.

CHAPTER II. THE BEAUTIFUL CREATURE CLAD IN WHITE. (Dante.)

When Quasimodo saw that the cell was empty, that the gypsy was no

longer there, that while he had been defending her she had been

abducted, he grasped his hair with both hands and stamped with

surprise and pain; then he set out to run through the entire

church seeking his Bohemian, howling strange cries to all the

corners of the walls, strewing his red hair on the pavement. It

was just at the moment when the king’s archers were making their

victorious entrance into Notre-Dame, also in search of the gypsy.

Quasimodo, poor, deaf fellow, aided them in their fatal

intentions, without suspecting it; he thought that the outcasts

were the gypsy’s enemies. He himself conducted Tristan l’Hermite

to all possible hiding-places, opened to him the secret doors,

the double bottoms of the altars, the rear sacristries. If the

unfortunate girl had still been there, it would have been he

himself who would have delivered her up.

When the fatigue of finding nothing had disheartened Tristan, who

was not easily discouraged, Quasimodo continued the search alone.

He made the tour of the church twenty times, length and breadth,

up and down, ascending and descending, running, calling,

shouting, peeping, rummaging, ransacking, thrusting his head into

every hole, pushing a torch under every vault, despairing, mad. A

male who has lost his female is no more roaring nor more haggard.

At last when he was sure, perfectly sure that she was no longer

there, that all was at an end, that she had been snatched from

him, he slowly mounted the staircase to the towers, that

staircase which he had ascended with so much eagerness and

triumph on the day when he had saved her. He passed those same

places once more with drooping head, voiceless, tearless, almost

breathless. The church was again deserted, and had fallen back

into its silence. The archers had quitted it to track the

sorceress in the city. Quasimodo, left alone in that vast

Notre-Dame, so besieged and tumultuous but a short time before,

once more betook himself to the cell where the gypsy had slept

for so many weeks under his guardianship.

As he approached it, he fancied that he might, perhaps, find her

there. When, at the turn of the gallery which opens on the roof

of the side aisles, he perceived the tiny cell with its little

window and its little door crouching beneath a great flying

buttress like a bird’s nest under a branch, the poor man’s heart

failed him, and he leaned against a pillar to keep from falling.

He imagined that she might have returned thither, that some good

genius had, no doubt, brought her back, that this chamber was too

tranquil, too safe, too charming for her not to be there, and he

dared not take another step for fear of destroying his illusion.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “perchance she is sleeping, or

praying. I must not disturb her.”

At length he summoned up courage, advanced on tiptoe, looked,

entered. Empty. The cell was still empty. The unhappy deaf man

walked slowly round it, lifted the bed and looked beneath it, as

though she might be concealed between the pavement and the

mattress, then he shook his head and remained stupefied. All at

once, he crushed his torch under his foot, and, without uttering

a word, without giving vent to a sigh, he flung himself at full

speed, head foremost against the wall, and fell fainting on the

floor.

When he recovered his senses, he threw himself on the bed and

rolling about, he kissed frantically the place where the young

girl had slept and which was still warm; he remained there for

several moments as motionless as though he were about to expire;

then he rose, dripping with perspiration, panting, mad, and began

to beat his head against the wall with the frightful regularity

of the clapper of his bells, and the resolution of a man

determined to kill himself. At length he fell a second time,

exhausted; he dragged himself on his knees outside the cell, and

crouched down facing the door, in an attitude of astonishment.

He remained thus for more than an hour without making a movement,

with his eye fixed on the deserted cell, more gloomy, and more

pensive than a mother seated between an empty cradle and a full

coffin. He uttered not a word; only at long intervals, a sob

heaved his body violently, but it was a tearless sob, like summer

lightning which makes no noise.

It appears to have been then, that, seeking at the bottom of his

lonely thoughts for the unexpected abductor of the gypsy, he

thought of the archdeacon. He remembered that Dom Claude alone

possessed a key to the staircase leading to the cell; he recalled

his nocturnal attempts on the young girl, in the first of which

he, Quasimodo, had assisted, the second of which he had

prevented. He recalled a thousand details, and soon he no longer

doubted that the archdeacon had taken the gypsy. Nevertheless,

such was his respect for the priest, such his gratitude, his

devotion, his love for this man had taken such deep root in his

heart, that they resisted, even at this moment, the talons of

jealousy and despair.

He reflected that the archdeacon had done this thing, and the

wrath of blood and death which it would have evoked in him

against any other person, turned in the poor deaf man, from the

moment when Claude Frollo was in question, into an increase of

grief and sorrow.

At the moment when his thought was thus fixed upon the priest,

while the daybreak was whitening the flying buttresses, he

perceived on the highest story of Notre-Dame, at the angle formed

by the external balustrade as it makes the turn of the chancel, a

figure walking. This figure was coming towards him. He recognized

it. It was the archdeacon.

Claude was walking with a slow, grave step. He did not look

before him as he walked, he was directing his course towards the

northern tower, but his face was turned aside towards the right

bank of the Seine, and he held his head high, as though trying to

see something over the roofs. The owl often assumes this oblique

attitude. It flies towards one point and looks towards another.

In this manner the priest passed above Quasimodo without seeing

him.

The deaf man, who had been petrified by this sudden apparition,

beheld him disappear through the door of the staircase to the

north tower. The reader is aware that this is the tower from

which the Hôtel-de-Ville is visible. Quasimodo rose and followed

the archdeacon.

Quasimodo ascended the tower staircase for the sake of ascending

it, for the sake of seeing why the priest was ascending it.

Moreover, the poor bellringer did not know what he (Quasimodo)

should do, what he should say, what he wished. He was full of

fury and full of fear. The archdeacon and the gypsy had come into

conflict in his heart.

When he reached the summit of the tower, before emerging from the

shadow of the staircase and stepping upon the platform, he

cautiously examined the position of the priest. The priest’s back

was turned to him. There is an openwork balustrade which

surrounds the platform of the bell tower. The priest, whose eyes

looked down upon the town, was resting his breast on that one of

the four sides of the balustrades which looks upon the Pont

Notre-Dame.

Quasimodo, advancing with the tread of a wolf behind him, went to

see what he was gazing at thus.

The priest’s attention was so absorbed elsewhere that he did not

hear the deaf man walking behind him.

Paris is a magnificent and charming spectacle, and especially at

that day, viewed from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame, in the

fresh light of a summer dawn. The day might have been in July.

The sky was perfectly serene. Some tardy stars were fading away

at various points, and there was a very brilliant one in the

east, in the brightest part of the heavens. The sun was about to

appear; Paris was beginning to move. A very white and very pure

light brought out vividly to the eye all the outlines that its

thousands of houses present to the east. The giant shadow of the

towers leaped from roof to roof, from one end of the great city

to the other. There were several quarters from which were already

heard voices and noisy sounds. Here the stroke of a bell, there

the stroke of a hammer, beyond, the complicated clatter of a cart

in motion.

Already several columns of smoke were being belched forth from

the chimneys scattered over the whole surface of roofs, as

through the fissures of an immense sulphurous crater. The river,

which ruffles its waters against the arches of so many bridges,

against the points of so many islands, was wavering with silvery

folds. Around the city, outside the ramparts, sight was lost in a

great circle of fleecy vapors through which one confusedly

distinguished the indefinite line of the plains, and the graceful

swell of the heights. All sorts of floating sounds were dispersed

over this half-awakened city. Towards the east, the morning

breeze chased a few soft white bits of wool torn from the misty

fleece of the hills.

In the Parvis, some good women, who had their milk jugs in their

hands, were pointing out to each other, with astonishment, the

singular dilapidation of the great door of Notre-Dame, and the

two solidified streams of lead in the crevices of the stone. This

was all that remained of the tempest of the night. The bonfire

lighted between the towers by Quasimodo had died out. Tristan had

already cleared up the Place, and had the dead thrown into the

Seine. Kings like Louis XI. are careful to clean the pavement

quickly after a massacre.

Outside the balustrade of the tower, directly under the point

where the priest had paused, there was one of those fantastically

carved stone gutters with which Gothic edifices bristle, and, in

a crevice of that gutter, two pretty wallflowers in blossom,

shaken out and vivified, as it were, by the breath of air, made

frolicsome salutations to each other. Above the towers, on high,

far away in the depths of the sky, the cries of little birds were

heard.

But the priest was not listening to, was not looking at, anything

of all this. He was one of the men for whom there are no

mornings, no birds, no flowers. In that immense horizon, which

assumed so many aspects about him, his contemplation was

concentrated on a single point.

Quasimodo was burning to ask him what he had done with the gypsy;

but the archdeacon seemed to be out of the world at that moment.

He was evidently in one of those violent moments of life when one

would not feel the earth crumble. He remained motionless and

silent, with his eyes steadily fixed on a certain point; and

there was something so terrible about this silence and immobility

that the savage bellringer shuddered before it and dared not come

in contact with it. Only, and this was also one way of

interrogating the archdeacon, he followed the direction of his

vision, and in this way the glance of the unhappy deaf man fell

upon the Place de Grève.

Thus he saw what the priest was looking at. The ladder was

erected near the permanent gallows. There were some people and

many soldiers in the Place. A man was dragging a white thing,

from which hung something black, along the pavement. This man

halted at the foot of the gallows.

Here something took place which Quasimodo could not see very

clearly. It was not because his only eye had not preserved its

long range, but there was a group of soldiers which prevented his

seeing everything. Moreover, at that moment the sun appeared, and

such a flood of light overflowed the horizon that one would have

said that all the points in Paris, spires, chimneys, gables, had

simultaneously taken fire.

Meanwhile, the man began to mount the ladder. Then Quasimodo saw

him again distinctly. He was carrying a woman on his shoulder, a

young girl dressed in white; that young girl had a noose about

her neck. Quasimodo recognized her.

It was she.

The man reached the top of the ladder. There he arranged the

noose. Here the priest, in order to see the better, knelt upon

the balustrade.

All at once the man kicked away the ladder abruptly, and

Quasimodo, who had not breathed for several moments, beheld the

unhappy child dangling at the end of the rope two fathoms above

the pavement, with the man squatting on her shoulders. The rope

made several gyrations on itself, and Quasimodo beheld horrible

convulsions run along the gypsy’s body. The priest, on his side,

with outstretched neck and eyes starting from his head,

contemplated this horrible group of the man and the young

girl,—the spider and the fly.

At the moment when it was most horrible, the laugh of a demon, a

laugh which one can only give vent to when one is no longer

human, burst forth on the priest’s livid face.

Quasimodo did not hear that laugh, but he saw it.

The bellringer retreated several paces behind the archdeacon, and

suddenly hurling himself upon him with fury, with his huge hands

he pushed him by the back over into the abyss over which Dom

Claude was leaning.

The priest shrieked: “Damnation!” and fell.

The spout, above which he had stood, arrested him in his fall. He

clung to it with desperate hands, and, at the moment when he

opened his mouth to utter a second cry, he beheld the formidable

and avenging face of Quasimodo thrust over the edge of the

balustrade above his head.

Then he was silent.

The abyss was there below him. A fall of more than two hundred

feet and the pavement.

In this terrible situation, the archdeacon said not a word,

uttered not a groan. He merely writhed upon the spout, with

incredible efforts to climb up again; but his hands had no hold

on the granite, his feet slid along the blackened wall without

catching fast. People who have ascended the towers of Notre-Dame

know that there is a swell of the stone immediately beneath the

balustrade. It was on this retreating angle that miserable

archdeacon exhausted himself. He had not to deal with a

perpendicular wall, but with one which sloped away beneath him.

Quasimodo had but to stretch out his hand in order to draw him

from the gulf; but he did not even look at him. He was looking at

the Grève. He was looking at the gallows. He was looking at the

gypsy.

The deaf man was leaning, with his elbows on the balustrade, at

the spot where the archdeacon had been a moment before, and

there, never detaching his gaze from the only object which

existed for him in the world at that moment, he remained

motionless and mute, like a man struck by lightning, and a long

stream of tears flowed in silence from that eye which, up to that

time, had never shed but one tear.

Meanwhile, the archdeacon was panting. His bald brow was dripping

with perspiration, his nails were bleeding against the stones,

his knees were flayed by the wall.

He heard his cassock, which was caught on the spout, crack and

rip at every jerk that he gave it. To complete his misfortune,

this spout ended in a leaden pipe which bent under the weight of

his body. The archdeacon felt this pipe slowly giving way. The

miserable man said to himself that, when his hands should be worn

out with fatigue, when his cassock should tear asunder, when the

lead should give way, he would be obliged to fall, and terror

seized upon his very vitals. Now and then he glanced wildly at a

sort of narrow shelf formed, ten feet lower down, by projections

of the sculpture, and he prayed heaven, from the depths of his

distressed soul, that he might be allowed to finish his life,

were it to last two centuries, on that space two feet square.

Once, he glanced below him into the Place, into the abyss; the

head which he raised again had its eyes closed and its hair

standing erect.

There was something frightful in the silence of these two men.

While the archdeacon agonized in this terrible fashion a few feet

below him, Quasimodo wept and gazed at the Grève.

The archdeacon, seeing that all his exertions served only to

weaken the fragile support which remained to him, decided to

remain quiet. There he hung, embracing the gutter, hardly

breathing, no longer stirring, making no longer any other

movements than that mechanical convulsion of the stomach, which

one experiences in dreams when one fancies himself falling. His

fixed eyes were wide open with a stare. He lost ground little by

little, nevertheless, his fingers slipped along the spout; he

became more and more conscious of the feebleness of his arms and

the weight of his body. The curve of the lead which sustained him

inclined more and more each instant towards the abyss.

He beheld below him, a frightful thing, the roof of Saint-Jean le

Rond, as small as a card folded in two. He gazed at the

impressive carvings, one by one, of the tower, suspended like

himself over the precipice, but without terror for themselves or

pity for him. All was stone around him; before his eyes, gaping

monsters; below, quite at the bottom, in the Place, the pavement;

above his head, Quasimodo weeping.

In the Parvis there were several groups of curious good people,

who were tranquilly seeking to divine who the madman could be who

was amusing himself in so strange a manner. The priest heard them

saying, for their voices reached him, clear and shrill: “Why, he

will break his neck!”

Quasimodo wept.

At last the archdeacon, foaming with rage and despair, understood

that all was in vain. Nevertheless, he collected all the strength

which remained to him for a final effort. He stiffened himself

upon the spout, pushed against the wall with both his knees,

clung to a crevice in the stones with his hands, and succeeded in

climbing back with one foot, perhaps; but this effort made the

leaden beak on which he rested bend abruptly. His cassock burst

open at the same time. Then, feeling everything give way beneath

him, with nothing but his stiffened and failing hands to support

him, the unfortunate man closed his eyes and let go of the spout.

He fell.

Quasimodo watched him fall.

A fall from such a height is seldom perpendicular. The

archdeacon, launched into space, fell at first head foremost,

with outspread hands; then he whirled over and over many times;

the wind blew him upon the roof of a house, where the unfortunate

man began to break up. Nevertheless, he was not dead when he

reached there. The bellringer saw him still endeavor to cling to

a gable with his nails; but the surface sloped too much, and he

had no more strength. He slid rapidly along the roof like a

loosened tile, and dashed upon the pavement. There he no longer

moved.

Then Quasimodo raised his eyes to the gypsy, whose body he beheld

hanging from the gibbet, quivering far away beneath her white

robe with the last shudderings of anguish, then he dropped them

on the archdeacon, stretched out at the base of the tower, and no

longer retaining the human form, and he said, with a sob which

heaved his deep chest,—“Oh! all that I have ever loved!”

CHAPTER III. THE MARRIAGE OF PHOEBUS.

Towards evening on that day, when the judiciary officers of the

bishop came to pick up from the pavement of the Parvis the

dislocated corpse of the archdeacon, Quasimodo had disappeared.

A great many rumors were in circulation with regard to this

adventure. No one doubted but that the day had come when, in

accordance with their compact, Quasimodo, that is to say, the

devil, was to carry off Claude Frollo, that is to say, the

sorcerer. It was presumed that he had broken the body when taking

the soul, like monkeys who break the shell to get at the nut.

This is why the archdeacon was not interred in consecrated earth.

Louis XI. died a year later, in the month of August, 1483.

As for Pierre Gringoire, he succeeded in saving the goat, and he

won success in tragedy. It appears that, after having tasted

astrology, philosophy, architecture, hermetics,—all vanities, he

returned to tragedy, vainest pursuit of all. This is what he

called “coming to a tragic end.” This is what is to be read, on

the subject of his dramatic triumphs, in 1483, in the accounts of

the “Ordinary:” “To Jehan Marchand and Pierre Gringoire,

carpenter and composer, who have made and composed the mystery

made at the Châtelet of Paris, at the entry of Monsieur the

Legate, and have ordered the personages, clothed and dressed the

same, as in the said mystery was required; and likewise, for

having made the scaffoldings thereto necessary; and for this

deed,—one hundred livres.”

Phœbus de Châteaupers also came to a tragic end. He married.

CHAPTER IV. THE MARRIAGE OF QUASIMODO.

We have just said that Quasimodo disappeared from Notre-Dame on

the day of the gypsy’s and of the archdeacon’s death. He was not

seen again, in fact; no one knew what had become of him.

During the night which followed the execution of la Esmeralda,

the night men had detached her body from the gibbet, and had

carried it, according to custom, to the cellar of Montfaucon.

Montfaucon was, as Sauval says, “the most ancient and the most

superb gibbet in the kingdom.” Between the faubourgs of the

Temple and Saint Martin, about a hundred and sixty toises from

the walls of Paris, a few bow shots from La Courtille, there was

to be seen on the crest of a gentle, almost imperceptible

eminence, but sufficiently elevated to be seen for several

leagues round about, an edifice of strange form, bearing

considerable resemblance to a Celtic cromlech, and where also

human sacrifices were offered.

Let the reader picture to himself, crowning a limestone hillock,

an oblong mass of masonry fifteen feet in height, thirty wide,

forty long, with a gate, an external railing and a platform; on

this platform sixteen enormous pillars of rough hewn stone,

thirty feet in height, arranged in a colonnade round three of the

four sides of the mass which support them, bound together at

their summits by heavy beams, whence hung chains at intervals; on

all these chains, skeletons; in the vicinity, on the plain, a

stone cross and two gibbets of secondary importance, which seemed

to have sprung up as shoots around the central gallows; above all

this, in the sky, a perpetual flock of crows; that was

Montfaucon.

At the end of the fifteenth century, the formidable gibbet which

dated from 1328, was already very much dilapidated; the beams

were wormeaten, the chains rusted, the pillars green with mould;

the layers of hewn stone were all cracked at their joints, and

grass was growing on that platform which no feet touched. The

monument made a horrible profile against the sky; especially at

night when there was a little moonlight on those white skulls, or

when the breeze of evening brushed the chains and the skeletons,

and swayed all these in the darkness. The presence of this gibbet

sufficed to render gloomy all the surrounding places.

The mass of masonry which served as foundation to the odious

edifice was hollow. A huge cellar had been constructed there,

closed by an old iron grating, which was out of order, into which

were cast not only the human remains, which were taken from the

chains of Montfaucon, but also the bodies of all the unfortunates

executed on the other permanent gibbets of Paris. To that deep

charnel-house, where so many human remains and so many crimes

have rotted in company, many great ones of this world, many

innocent people, have contributed their bones, from Enguerrand de

Marigni, the first victim, and a just man, to Admiral de Coligni,

who was its last, and who was also a just man.

As for the mysterious disappearance of Quasimodo, this is all

that we have been able to discover.

About eighteen months or two years after the events which

terminate this story, when search was made in that cavern for the

body of Olivier le Daim, who had been hanged two days previously,

and to whom Charles VIII. had granted the favor of being buried

in Saint Laurent, in better company, they found among all those

hideous carcasses two skeletons, one of which held the other in

its embrace. One of these skeletons, which was that of a woman,

still had a few strips of a garment which had once been white,

and around her neck was to be seen a string of adrézarach beads

with a little silk bag ornamented with green glass, which was

open and empty. These objects were of so little value that the

executioner had probably not cared for them. The other, which

held this one in a close embrace, was the skeleton of a man. It

was noticed that his spinal column was crooked, his head seated

on his shoulder blades, and that one leg was shorter than the

other. Moreover, there was no fracture of the vertebrae at the

nape of the neck, and it was evident that he had not been hanged.

Hence, the man to whom it had belonged had come thither and had

died there. When they tried to detach the skeleton which he held

in his embrace, he fell to dust.

NOTE

ADDED TO THE DEFINITIVE EDITION.

It is by mistake that this edition was announced as augmented by

many _new_ chapters. The word should have been _unpublished_. In

fact, if by new, _newly made_ is to be understood, the chapters

added to this edition are not new. They were written at the same

time as the rest of the work; they date from the same epoch, and

sprang from the same thought, they have always formed a part of

the manuscript of “Notre-Dame-de-Paris.” Moreover, the author

cannot comprehend how fresh developments could be added to a work

of this character after its completion. This is not to be done at

will. According to his idea, a romance is born in a manner that

is, in some sort, necessary, with all its chapters; a drama is

born with all its scenes. Think not that there is anything

arbitrary in the numbers of parts of which that whole, that

mysterious microcosm which you call a drama or a romance, is

composed. Grafting and soldering take badly on works of this

nature, which should gush forth in a single stream and so remain.

The thing once done, do not change your mind, do not touch it up.

The book once published, the sex of the work, whether virile or

not, has been recognized and proclaimed; when the child has once

uttered his first cry he is born, there he is, he is made so,

neither father nor mother can do anything, he belongs to the air

and to the sun, let him live or die, such as he is. Has your book

been a failure? So much the worse. Add no chapters to an

unsuccessful book. Is it incomplete? You should have completed it

when you conceived it. Is your tree crooked? You cannot

straighten it up. Is your romance consumptive? Is your romance

not capable of living? You cannot supply it with the breath which

it lacks. Has your drama been born lame? Take my advice, and do

not provide it with a wooden leg.

Hence the author attaches particular importance to the public

knowing for a certainty that the chapters here added have not

been made expressly for this reprint. They were not published in

the preceding editions of the book for a very simple reason. At

the time when “Notre-Dame-de-Paris” was printed the first time,

the manuscript of these three chapters had been mislaid. It was

necessary to rewrite them or to dispense with them. The author

considered that the only two of these chapters which were in the

least important, owing to their extent, were chapters on art and

history which in no way interfered with the groundwork of the

drama and the romance, that the public would not notice their

loss, and that he, the author, would alone be in possession of

the secret. He decided to omit them, and then, if the whole truth

must be confessed, his indolence shrunk from the task of

rewriting the three lost chapters. He would have found it a

shorter matter to make a new romance.

Now the chapters have been found, and he avails himself of the

first opportunity to restore them to their place.

This now, is his entire work, such as he dreamed it, such as he

made it, good or bad, durable or fragile, but such as he wishes

it.

These recovered chapters will possess no doubt, but little value

in the eyes of persons, otherwise very judicious, who have sought

in “Notre-Dame-de-Paris” only the drama, the romance. But there

are perchance, other readers, who have not found it useless to

study the æsthetic and philosophic thought concealed in this

book, and who have taken pleasure, while reading

“Notre-Dame-de-Paris,” in unravelling beneath the romance

something else than the romance, and in following (may we be

pardoned these rather ambitious expressions), the system of the

historian and the aim of the artist through the creation of the

poet.

For such people especially, the chapters added to this edition

will complete “Notre-Dame-de-Paris,” if we admit that

“Notre-Dame-de-Paris” was worth the trouble of completing.

In one of these chapters on the present decadence of

architecture, and on the death (in his mind almost inevitable) of

that king of arts, the author expresses and develops an opinion

unfortunately well rooted in him, and well thought out. But he

feels it necessary to say here that he earnestly desires that the

future may, some day, put him in the wrong. He knows that art in

all its forms has everything to hope from the new generations

whose genius, still in the germ, can be heard gushing forth in

our studios. The grain is in the furrow, the harvest will

certainly be fine. He merely fears, and the reason may be seen in

the second volume of this edition, that the sap may have been

withdrawn from that ancient soil of architecture which has been

for so many centuries the best field for art.

Nevertheless, there are to-day in the artistic youth so much

life, power, and, so to speak, predestination, that in our

schools of architecture in particular, at the present time, the

professors, who are detestable, produce, not only unconsciously

but even in spite of themselves, excellent pupils; quite the

reverse of that potter mentioned by Horace, who dreamed amphoræ

and produced pots. _Currit rota, urcens exit_.

But, in any case, whatever may be the future of architecture, in

whatever manner our young architects may one day solve the

question of their art, let us, while waiting for new monument,

preserve the ancient monuments. Let us, if possible, inspire the

nation with a love for national architecture. That, the author

declares, is one of the principal aims of this book; it is one of

the principal aims of his life.

“Notre-Dame-de-Paris” has, perhaps opened some true perspectives

on the art of the Middle Ages, on that marvellous art which up to

the present time has been unknown to some, and, what is worse,

misknown by others. But the author is far from regarding as

accomplished, the task which he has voluntarily imposed on

himself. He has already pleaded on more than one occasion, the

cause of our ancient architecture, he has already loudly

denounced many profanations, many demolitions, many impieties. He

will not grow weary. He has promised himself to recur frequently

to this subject. He will return to it. He will be as

indefatigable in defending our historical edifices as our

iconoclasts of the schools and academies are eager in attacking

them; for it is a grievous thing to see into what hands the

architecture of the Middle Ages has fallen, and in what a manner

the botchers of plaster of the present day treat the ruin of this

grand art, it is even a shame for us intelligent men who see them

at work and content ourselves with hooting them. And we are not

speaking here merely of what goes on in the provinces, but of

what is done in Paris at our very doors, beneath our windows, in

the great city, in the lettered city, in the city of the press,

of word, of thought. We cannot resist the impulse to point out,

in concluding this note, some of the acts of vandalism which are

every day planned, debated, begun, continued, and successfully

completed under the eyes of the artistic public of Paris, face to

face with criticism, which is disconcerted by so much audacity.

An archbishop’s palace has just been demolished, an edifice in

poor taste, no great harm is done; but in a block with the

archiepiscopal palace a bishop’s palace has been demolished, a

rare fragment of the fourteenth century, which the demolishing

architect could not distinguish from the rest. He has torn up the

wheat with the tares; ’tis all the same. They are talking of

razing the admirable chapel of Vincennes, in order to make, with

its stones, some fortification, which Daumesnil did not need,

however. While the Palais Bourbon, that wretched edifice, is

being repaired at great expense, gusts of wind and equinoctial

storms are allowed to destroy the magnificent painted windows of

the Sainte-Chapelle. For the last few days there has been a

scaffolding on the tower of Saint Jacques de la Boucherie; and

one of these mornings the pick will be laid to it. A mason has

been found to build a little white house between the venerable

towers of the Palais de-Justice. Another has been found willing

to prune away Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the feudal abbey with three

bell towers. Another will be found, no doubt, capable of pulling

down Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. All these masons claim to be

architects, are paid by the prefecture or from the petty budget,

and wear green coats. All the harm which false taste can inflict

on good taste, they accomplish. While we write, deplorable

spectacle! one of them holds possession of the Tuileries, one of

them is giving Philibert Delorme a scar across the middle of his

face; and it is not, assuredly, one of the least of the scandals

of our time to see with what effrontery the heavy architecture of

this gentleman is being flattened over one of the most delicate

façades of the Renaissance!

PARIS, October 20, 1832.

FOOTNOTES:

1 (return) The word Gothic, in the sense in which it is generally

employed, is wholly unsuitable, but wholly consecrated. Hence we accept

it and we adopt it, like all the rest of the world, to characterize the

architecture of the second half of the Middle Ages, where the ogive is

the principle which succeeds the architecture of the first period, of

which the semi-circle is the father.

2 (return) _Faire le diable à quatre_.

3 (return) _Thibaut au des_,—Thibaut of the dice.

4 (return) An old French coin, equal to the two hundred and fortieth

part of a pound.

5 (return) Got the first idea of a thing.

6 (return) The ancient French _hurrah_.

7 (return) A chamber of the ancient parliament of Paris.

8 (return) A blank: an old French coin; six blanks were worth two sous

and a half; targe, an ancient coin of Burgundy, a farthing.

9 (return)

A coffer of great richness

In a pillar’s heart they found,

Within it lay new banners,

With figures to astound.

10 (return) Alms.

11 (return) Give me the means to buy a bit of bread, sir.

12 (return) A high-toned sharper.

13 (return) Thieves.

14 (return) L’argot.

15 (return) A small dessert apple, bright red on one side and

greenish-white on the other.

16 (return) When the gay-plumaged birds grow weary, and the earth—

17 (return)

My father is a bird,

my mother is a bird.

I cross the water without a barque,

I cross the water without a boat.

My mother is a bird,

my father is a bird.

18 (return) Time is a devourer; man, more so.

19 (return) _Histoire Gallicane_, liv. II. Periode III. fo. 130, p. 1.

20 (return) This is the same which is called, according to locality,

climate, and races, Lombard, Saxon, or Byzantine. There are four sister

and parallel architectures, each having its special character, but

derived from the same origin, the round arch.

_Facies non omnibus una,

Non diversa tamen, qualem_, etc.

Their faces not all alike, nor yet different, but such as the faces of

sisters ought to be.

21 (return) This portion of the spire, which was of woodwork, is

precisely that which was consumed by lightning, in 1823.

22 (return) The wall walling Paris makes Paris murmur.

23 (return) We have seen with sorrow mingled with indignation, that it

is the intention to increase, to recast, to make over, that is to say,

to destroy this admirable palace. The architects of our day have too

heavy a hand to touch these delicate works of the Renaissance. We still

cherish a hope that they will not dare. Moreover, this demolition of

the Tuileries now, would be not only a brutal deed of violence, which

would make a drunken vandal blush—it would be an act of treason. The

Tuileries is not simply a masterpiece of the art of the sixteenth

century, it is a page of the history of the nineteenth. This palace no

longer belongs to the king, but to the people. Let us leave it as it

is. Our revolution has twice set its seal upon its front. On one of its

two façades, there are the cannon-balls of the 10th of August; on the

other, the balls of the 29th of July. It is sacred. Paris, April 7,

1831. (_Note to the fifth edition._)

24 (return) The tenth month of the French republican calendar, from the

19th of June to the 18th of July.

25 (return) An official of Notre-Dame, lower than a beneficed

clergyman, higher than simple paid chanters.

26 (return) Hugo II. de Bisuncio, 1326-1332.

27 (return) This comet against which Pope Calixtus, uncle of Borgia,

ordered public prayers, is the same which reappeared in 1835.

28 (return) Comptes du domaine, 1383.

29 (return) A _Queue_ was a cask which held a hogshead and a half.

30 (return) A captain of fifty men.

31 (return) Ox-eye daisy.

32 (return) Easter daisy.

33 (return) A rope for the gallows bird! A fagot for the ape.

34 (return) An ancient Burgundian coin.

35 (return) An ancient French coin.

36 (return) Truly, these roastings are a stupendous thing!

37 (return) Peter the Slaughterer; and Baptist Crack-Gosling.

38 (return) An ancient copper coin, the forty-fourth part of a sou or

the twelfth part of a farthing.

39 (return) Une vielle qui _scie_ une _anse_

40 (return) Cut-Weazand Street.

41 (return) Cut-Throat Street.

42 (return) The children of the Petits Carreaux let themselves be hung

like calves.

43 (return) 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.

44 (return) Varieties of the crossbow.

45 (return) The substance of this exordium is contained in the

president’s sentence.

46 (return) “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.”

47 (return) “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.”

48 (return) “Go now, soul, trembling in the balance, and God have mercy

upon thee.”

49 (return) “Lord have mercy upon us.”

50 (return) “All thy waves and thy billows have gone over me.”

51 (return) Bark, Grève, grumble, Grève! Spin, spin, my distaff, spin

her rope for the hangman, who is whistling in the meadow. What a

beautiful hempen rope! Sow hemp, not wheat, from Issy to Vanvre. The

thief hath not stolen the beautiful hempen rope. Grumble, Grève, bark,

Grève! To see the dissolute wench hang on the blear-eyed gibbet,

windows are eyes.

52 (return) Look not at the face, young girl, look at the heart. The

heart of a handsome young man is often deformed. There are hearts in

which love does not keep. Young girl, the pine is not beautiful; it is

not beautiful like the poplar, but it keeps its foliage in winter.

Alas! What is the use of saying that? That which is not beautiful has

no right to exist; beauty loves only beauty; April turns her back on

January. Beauty is perfect, beauty can do all things, beauty is the

only thing which does not exist by halves. The raven flies only by day,

the owl flies only by night, the swan flies by day and by night.

53 (return) _Sols neufs: poulets tués_.

54 (return) An arrow with a pyramidal head of iron and copper spiral

wings, by which a rotatory motion was communicated.

55 (return) A game played on a checker-board containing three

concentric sets of squares, with small stones. The game consisted in

getting three stones in a row.

56 (return) Good night, father and mother, the last cover up the fire.

57 (return) That I will drink no spiced and honeyed wine for a year, if

I am lying now.

58 (return) And by the blood of God, I have neither faith nor law, nor

fire nor dwelling-place, nor king nor God.

59 (return) Men of the brotherhood of slang: thieves.

60 (return) Cut-throat. Coupe-gueule being the vulgar word for

cut-weazand.

61 (return) The representation of a monstrous animal solemnly drawn

about in Tarascon and other French towns.

62 (return) An arrow with a pyramidal head of iron and copper spiral

wings by which a rotatory motion was communicated.

63 (return) The city of Cambrai is well dressed. Marafin plundered it.

64 (return) An ancient long measure in France, containing six feet and

nearly five inches English measure.

65 (return) Master Jean Balue has lost sight of his bishoprics.

Monsieur of Verdun has no longer one; all have been killed off.

66 (return) One in charge of the highways.

67 (return) A lord having a right on the woods of his vassals.

68 (return) When thou shalt find its mate, thy mother will stretch out

her arms to thee.