Part 21

Quasimodo's eye flashed. It was the gypsy girl he had tried to abduct the previous night, a brawl for which he vaguely felt he was being punished at that very moment; which, moreover, was not in the least surprising, since he was punished only for the misfortune of being deaf and of having been judged by a deaf man. He did not doubt that she too had come to take her revenge, and to strike her blow like all the others.

He saw her, in fact, rapidly mount the ladder. Anger and spite suffocated him. He would have liked to bring the pillory crashing down, and if the lightning of his eye could have blasted, the Egyptian girl would have been reduced to powder before reaching the platform.

She approached, without saying a word, the sufferer who writhed vainly to escape her, and, detaching a gourd from her belt, she gently raised it to the parched lips of the wretch.

Then, in that eye until then so dry and burning, a great tear was seen to roll, which fell slowly along that deformed face long contracted by despair. It was perhaps the first the unfortunate creature had ever shed.

Meanwhile he forgot to drink. The Egyptian girl made her little impatient pout, and smiling, pressed the neck of the gourd to Quasimodo's toothless mouth.

He drank in long draughts. His thirst was fierce.

When he had finished, the wretch stretched out his black lips, doubtless to kiss the beautiful hand that had just assisted him. But the young girl, who was not without suspicion perhaps and remembered the violent attempt of the night, withdrew her hand with the frightened gesture of a child who fears being bitten by a beast.

Then the poor deaf man fixed upon her a look full of reproach and inexpressible sadness.

It would have been a touching spectacle anywhere, that beautiful girl, fresh, pure, charming, and so weak at the same time, thus piously hastening to the relief of so much misery, deformity, and malice. Upon a pillory, the spectacle was sublime.

All the people were moved by it and began to clap their hands, crying: "Noël! Noël!"

It was at this moment that the recluse, from the window of her cell, caught sight of the Egyptian girl upon the pillory and hurled her sinister curse: "Accursed be thou, daughter of Egypt! accursed! accursed!"

V

END OF THE STORY OF THE CAKE

La Esmeralda turned pale, and descended from the pillory staggering. The recluse's voice still pursued her: "Down! down! thief of Egypt, thou shalt come up again!

"The sachette is in one of her fits," said the people murmuring; and nothing more came of it. For such women were feared, which made them sacred. One did not willingly attack those who prayed day and night.

The hour had come to lead Quasimodo away. He was unbound, and the crowd dispersed.

Near the Grand-Pont, Mahiette, who was returning with her two companions, suddenly stopped: "By the way, Eustache! what have you done with the cake?"

"Mother," said the child, "while you were talking with that lady who was in the hole, there was a big dog that bit into my cake. So I ate some too."

"What, sir, you ate it all?" she replied.

"Mother, it was the dog. I told him, he didn't listen to me. So I bit too, see!"

"He is a terrible child," said the mother, smiling and scolding at once. "Do you see, Oudarde, he already alone eats all the cherry tree of our close at Charlerange. So his grandfather says he will be a captain.—Let me catch you at it, Master Eustache.—Go, big lion!"

BOOK SEVENTH

I

OF THE DANGER OF ENTRUSTING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT

Several weeks had elapsed.

It was the first days of March. The sun, which Dubartas, that classic ancestor of periphrasis, had not yet named _the grand-duke of candles_, was none the less joyous and radiant for that. It was one of those spring days of such sweetness and beauty that all Paris, spread through the squares and promenades, celebrates them like Sundays. On these days of brightness, warmth, and serenity, there is one hour above all that must be admired: the portal of Notre-Dame. It is the moment when the sun, already inclined toward the west, looks almost full upon the cathedral. Its rays, ever more horizontal, slowly withdraw from the pavement of the square, and climb the sheer facade whose thousand round bosses they make stand out against their shadow, while the great central rose window flames like the eye of an inflamed cyclops with the reverberations of the forge.

It was at that hour.

Facing the lofty cathedral, reddened by the sunset, upon the stone balcony set above the porch of a rich Gothic house which formed the corner of the square and the rue du Parvis, a few beautiful young girls laughed and chattered with every sort of grace and folly. By the length of the veil falling from the top of their pointed headdresses wound with pearls to their heels, by the fineness of the embroidered smock covering their shoulders while leaving visible, according to the engaging fashion of the time, the rise of their beautiful virgin bosoms, by the fullness of their underskirts, yet more precious than their overdress (a marvelous refinement!), by the gauze, the silk, the velvet of which all this was fashioned, and above all by the whiteness of their hands which attested them idle and lazy, it was easy to guess noble and rich heiresses. They were indeed damsel Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and little Bérangère de Champchevrier; all daughters of good family, gathered at this moment at the house of the widow lady de Gondelaurier, because of monseigneur de Beaujeu and his wife, who were to come to Paris in April and choose honorary attendants there for Madame the Dauphine Marguerite, when she should be received in Picardy from the hands of the Flemings. Now all the squires within thirty leagues roundabout courted this favor for their daughters, and many of them had already brought or sent them to Paris. These had been entrusted by their parents to the discreet and venerable keeping of Madame Aloïse de Gondelaurier, widow of a former master of the king's crossbowmen, retired with her only daughter to her house on the Place du Parvis Notre-Dame, in Paris.

The balcony where these young girls were opened into a chamber richly hung with Flemish leather of fawn color printed with golden scrollwork. The beams which paralleled the ceiling amused the eye with a thousand bizarre sculpted paintings gilded. Upon chiseled sideboards, splendid enamels shimmered here and there; a faience boar's head crowned a magnificent dresser whose two steps announced that the mistress of the lodging was the wife or widow of a knight banneret. At the back, beside a tall heraldic chimney blazoned from top to bottom, sat in a rich armchair of red velvet the lady of Gondelaurier, whose fifty-five years were no less written on her garment than on her face.

Beside her stood a young man of rather proud bearing, though somewhat vain and swaggering, one of those handsome fellows with whom all women agree, though grave men and physiognomists shrug their shoulders. This young cavalier wore the brilliant habit of captain of the king's ordinance archers, which much too closely resembles the costume of Jupiter, already admired in the first book of this history, for us to fatigue the reader with a second description.

The damsels were seated, partly in the chamber, partly on the balcony, some upon cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden corners, others upon oak stools carved with flowers and figures. Each held upon her knees a corner of a great needlework tapestry, at which they worked in common, and a good length of which trailed upon the mat covering the floor.

They talked among themselves with that whispering voice and those half-stifled laughs of a conclave of young girls in the midst of which there is a young man. The young man, whose presence sufficed to set in motion all those feminine amours-propres, seemed, he, to care little for it; and while it was among the beauties a question of who should attract his attention, he appeared above all occupied in polishing with his chamois glove the tongue of his belt buckle.

From time to time the old lady addressed a word to him quite low, and he answered her as best he could with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness. By the smiles, the little signs of understanding of Madame Aloïse, by the winks she detached toward her daughter Fleur-de-Lys, in speaking low to the captain, it was easy to see that it was a matter of some consummated betrothal, of some near marriage no doubt between the young man and Fleur-de-Lys. And by the cold embarrassed air of the officer, it was easy to see that, on his side at least, it was no longer a question of love. All his bearing expressed a thought of constraint and boredom which our garrison sub-lieutenants would admirably translate today by: What a damned tiresome duty.

The good lady, much attached to her daughter, as a poor mother she was, perceived not the officer's lack of enthusiasm, and exerted herself to make him remark in a low voice the infinite perfections with which Fleur-de-Lys plied her needle or wound her skein.

"See here, little cousin," she said, pulling him by the sleeve to speak in his ear. "Look at her! there she bends down."

"Indeed," answered the young man; and he fell back into his distracted and icy silence.

A moment later, it was needful to lean again, and Dame Aloïse said to him:

"Have you ever seen a more pleasing and cheerful face than your betrothed? Is anyone whiter and blonder? are not those accomplished hands? and that neck, does it not take, to ravishment, all the airs of a swan? How I envy you at times! and how happy you are to be a man, wicked libertine that you are! Is not my Fleur-de-Lys beautiful to adoration and are you not bewitched by her?"

"No doubt," he answered, thinking of something else.

"But speak to her then," suddenly said Madame Aloïse, pushing him by the shoulder. "Say something to her then. You have become very shy."

We can assure our readers that shyness was neither the virtue nor the failing of the captain. He tried nevertheless to do as asked.

"Fair cousin," said he, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, "what is the subject of that tapestry work you are fashioning?"

"Fair cousin," answered Fleur-de-Lys with an accent of vexation, "I have already told you three times. It is the grotto of Neptunus."

It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her mother the cold and distracted manners of the captain. He felt the need to make some conversation.

"And for whom all this neptunery?" he asked.

"For the abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs," said Fleur-de-Lys without raising her eyes.

The captain took a corner of the tapestry:

"What is this, my fair cousin, this fat man-at-arms who blows full-cheeked into a trumpet?"

"It is Triton," she answered.

There was always a somewhat sulky intonation in the brief words of Fleur-de-Lys. The young man understood that it was indispensable to say something to her ear, a trifle, a gallantry, anything. He leaned therefore, but could find in his imagination nothing tenderer and more intimate than this: "Why does your mother always wear a heraldic cotte-hardie like our grandmothers in the time of Charles VII? Tell her then, fair cousin, that it is no longer the fashion of the present, and that her hinge and her laurel embroidered in arms upon her robe give her the air of a walking chimney-piece. In truth, one no longer sits thus upon one's banner, I swear to you."

Fleur-de-Lys raised upon him her beautiful eyes full of reproach: "Is that all you swear to me?" said she in a low voice.

Meanwhile the good Dame Aloïse, delighted to see them thus bent and whispering, said while playing with the clasps of her book of hours: "Touching picture of love!"

The captain, more and more ill at ease, fell back upon the tapestry:

"It is truly a charming work!" he cried.

At this, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde with white skin, well collared in blue damask, hazarded timidly a word which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys, in hope that the handsome captain would answer:

"My dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the hôtel de la Roche-Guyon?"

"Is it not the hôtel where the garden of the Louvre Laundress is enclosed?" asked, laughing, Diane de Christeuil, who had beautiful teeth and therefore laughed at every opportunity.

"And where there is that great old tower of the ancient wall of Paris," added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty curly brunette and fresh, who had the habit of sighing as the other laughed, without knowing why.

"My dear Colombe," resumed Dame Aloïse, "would you not speak of the hôtel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, under King Charles VI? there are indeed most superb high-warp tapestries."

"Charles VI! King Charles VI!" grumbled the young captain, twirling his mustache. "Good Lord! how the good lady remembers old things!"

Madame de Gondelaurier continued: "Beautiful tapestries, in truth. A work so esteemed that it passes for singular!"

At this moment, Bérangère de Champchevrier, a slender little girl of seven, who was looking into the square through the trefoils of the balcony, cried:

"Oh! see, fair godmother Fleur-de-Lys, the pretty dancer who dances there upon the pavement, and who tambourines amid the bourgeois commons!"

Indeed, one heard the sonorous quiver of a tambourine.

"Some Bohemian Egyptian," said Fleur-de-Lys, turning nonchalantly toward the square.

"Let us see! let us see!" cried her lively companions; and they all ran to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, dreamy from her fiancé's coldness, followed them slowly and he, relieved by this incident which cut short an embarrassed conversation, came back to the rear of the apartment with the air of a soldier off duty. Yet it was a charming and gentle service, that of the beautiful Fleur-de-Lys, and he had thought so formerly; but the captain had gradually become blasé; the prospect of a near marriage chilled him more and more day by day. Besides, he was of inconstant humor, and—must it be said?—of somewhat vulgar taste. Though of very noble birth, he had contracted under the harness more than one soldier's habit. The tavern pleased him, and what follows. He was at ease only among coarse words, military gallantries, easy beauties and easy successes. He had nevertheless received from his family some education and some manners; but he had too young roamed the country, too young held garrison, and every day the varnish of the gentleman was effaced by the hard rubbing of his archer's baldric. While still visiting her from time to time, by a remnant of human respect, he felt doubly constrained with Fleur-de-Lys; first, because, by dint of dispersing his love in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her; secondly, because amid so many stiff, pinned, and decent beauties, he trembled continually lest his mouth, accustomed to oaths, should suddenly take the bit between its teeth and escape into tavern talk. Let one imagine the fine effect!

For the rest, all this was mingled in him with great pretensions to elegance, dress, and handsome bearing. Let one arrange these things as one may. I am but an historian.

He had been standing thus for some moments, thinking or not thinking, silently leaning against the sculpted mantel, when Fleur-de-Lys, suddenly turning, spoke to him. After all, the poor young girl only sulked with him against her will.

"Fair cousin, had you not spoken to us of a little Bohemian whom you saved, two months ago, while doing counter-watch by night, from the hands of a dozen thieves?"

"I believe so, fair cousin," said the captain.

"Well," she resumed, "it is perhaps this Bohemian who dances there in the parvis. Come see if you recognize her, fair cousin Phoebus."

He perceived a secret desire for reconciliation in this gentle invitation she addressed him to come near her, and in this care to call him by his name. The captain Phoebus de Châteaupers (for it is he whom the reader has before his eyes since the beginning of this chapter) approached with slow steps to the balcony. "See here," said Fleur-de-Lys, tenderly placing her hand upon Phoebus's arm, "look at that little one who dances there in that ring. Is she your Bohemian?"

Phoebus looked, and said:

"Yes, I recognize her by her goat."

"Oh! the pretty little goat indeed!" said Amelotte, joining her hands in admiration.

"Are its horns of real gold?" asked Bérangère.

Without moving from her armchair, Dame Aloïse took the word: "Is it not one of those Bohemians who arrived last year by the Gibard gate?"

"Mother mine," said softly Fleur-de-Lys, "that gate is called today porte d'Enfer."

Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew to what point the captain was shocked by his mother's old-fashioned ways of speaking. Indeed, he began to snicker, saying between his teeth: "Gibard gate! Gibard gate! That is to make King Charles VI pass!"

"Godmother," cried Bérangère, whose ever-moving eyes had suddenly lifted toward the top of the towers of Notre-Dame, "what is that black man up there?"

All the young girls raised their eyes. A man indeed was leaning on the culminating balustrade of the northern tower, overlooking the Grève. It was a priest. One distinctly made out his costume, and his face resting on his two hands. For the rest, he moved no more than a statue. His fixed eye plunged into the square.

It was something of the immobility of a kite who has just discovered a nest of sparrows and who watches it.

"It is Monsieur the Archdeacon of Josas," said Fleur-de-Lys.

"You have good eyes if you recognize him from here!" observed the Gaillefontaine.

"How he looks at the little dancer!" resumed Diane de Christeuil.

"Beware the Egyptian!" said Fleur-de-Lys, "for he does not love Egypt."

"It is great pity that man looks at her thus," added Amelotte de Montmichel, "for she dances to dazzle."

"Fair cousin Phoebus," suddenly said Fleur-de-Lys, "since you know this little Bohemian, do make her a sign to come up. That will amuse us."

"Oh yes!" cried all the young girls, clapping their hands.

"But that is folly," answered Phoebus. "She has no doubt forgotten me, and I do not so much as know her name. However, since you wish it, mesdemoiselles, I will try." And leaning over the balcony railing, he began to cry: "Little one!"

The dancer was not tambourining at that moment. She turned her head toward the point from which came this call, her bright gaze fixed upon Phoebus, and she stopped short.

"Little one!" repeated the captain; and he beckoned her with his finger to come.

The young girl looked at him again, then she reddened as if a flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her tambourine under her arm, she directed herself, through the astonished spectators, toward the door of the house where Phoebus called her, with slow steps, staggering, and with the troubled look of a bird yielding to the fascination of a serpent.

A moment later, the tapestry portière lifted, and the Bohemian appeared upon the threshold of the chamber, red, abashed, out of breath, her great eyes lowered, and not daring to take another step.

Bérangère clapped her hands.

Meanwhile the dancer remained motionless upon the threshold of the door. Her appearance had produced upon that group of young girls a singular effect. It is certain that a vague and indistinct desire to please the handsome officer animated them all at once, that the splendid uniform was the mark of all their coquetries, and that, since he had been present, there was among them a certain secret, muffled rivalry, which they scarce avowed to themselves, and which none the less burst forth at every instant in their gestures and their words. However, as they were all nearly equal in beauty, they fought with equal arms, and each could hope for victory. The arrival of the Bohemian abruptly broke that equilibrium. She was of so rare a beauty that at the moment she appeared at the entrance of the apartment it seemed she shed there a sort of light proper to her. In that narrow chamber, under that dark framing of hangings and woodwork, she was incomparably more beautiful and radiant than in the public square. It was as a torch brought from broad daylight into the shadow. The noble damsels were in spite of themselves dazzled. Each felt herself in some sort wounded in her beauty. So their line of battle—pardon the expression—changed on the spot, without their saying a single word to each other. But they understood one another marvelously. Women's instincts comprehend and answer faster than men's intelligences. There had just come to them an enemy: all felt it, all rallied. It suffices of a drop of wine to redden a whole glass of water; to tinge a whole assembly of pretty women with a certain humor, it suffices that a prettier woman appear—especially when there is but one man.

So the reception given the Bohemian was marvelously cold. They considered her from head to foot, then looked at one another, and all was said. They had understood each other. Yet the young girl waited to be spoken to, so moved that she dared not lift her eyelids.

The captain broke the silence first. "On my word," said he, with his tone of intrepid fatuity, "here is a charming creature! What think you, fair cousin?"

This observation, which a more delicate admirer would at least have made in a low voice, was not of a nature to dissipate the feminine jealousies which kept watch before the Bohemian.

Fleur-de-Lys answered the captain with a sugary affectation of disdain: "Not bad."

The others whispered.

At length, Madame Aloïse, who was not the least jealous, because she was so for her daughter, addressed the dancer: "Come near, little one."

"Come near, little one!" repeated with comic dignity Bérangère, which became her at the hip.

The Egyptian advanced toward the noble lady.

"Beautiful child," said Phoebus with emphasis, making for his part some steps toward her, "I know not if I have the supreme happiness of being recognized by you..."

She interrupted him, raising upon him a smile and a gaze full of infinite sweetness:

"Oh! yes," said she.

"She has a good memory," observed Fleur-de-Lys.

"Now then," resumed Phoebus, "you slipped away very promptly the other night. Did I frighten you?"

"Oh! no," said the Bohemian.

There was, in the accent with which this _oh! no_ was pronounced following that _oh! yes_, something ineffable which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.

"You left me in your place, my beauty," pursued the captain, whose tongue loosened in speaking to a street girl, "a rather surly knave, one-eyed and hunchbacked, the bishop's bell-ringer, as I believe. I was told he is bastard of an archdeacon and devil-born. He has a pleasant name, he is called Quatre-Temps, Pâques-Fleuries, Mardi-Gras, I know not what else! A name of ringing festival, in short! He permitted himself then to abduct you, as if you were made for beadles! that is fine. What the devil did that screech-owl want of you then? Eh, say!"

"I know not," she answered.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”