Chapter VIII

The Utility of Windows which Open on the River

Claude Frollo had been waiting a quarter of an hour; it seemed to him that he had grown a century older. All at once he heard the creaking of the boards of the stairway; some one was ascending. The trapdoor opened once more; a light reappeared. There was a tolerably large crack in the worm-eaten door of his den; he put his face to it. In this manner he could see all that went on in the adjoining room. Phoebus emerged from the trap-door, twirling his moustache, then that beautiful and graceful figure, la Esmeralda. The priest beheld her rise from below like a dazzling apparition. Claude trembled, a cloud spread over his eyes, his pulses beat violently; he no longer saw nor heard anything.

When he recovered himself, Phoebus and Esmeralda were alone seated on the wooden coffer.

The young girl was blushing, confused. Her long, drooping lashes shaded her crimson cheeks. The officer, to whom she dared not lift her eyes, was radiant.

It was not without difficulty that Dom Claude managed to hear what they were saying, through the humming of the blood in his ears.

“Oh!” said the young girl, without raising her eyes, “do not despise me, monseigneur Phoebus. I feel that what I am doing is not right.”

“Despise you, my pretty child!” replied the officer with an air of distinguished gallantry, “Despise you! Why?”

“For having followed you!”

“On that point, my beauty, we don’t agree.”

“’tis because I am breaking a vow. I shall not find my parents! The amulet will lose its virtue. But what matters it? What need have I of father or mother now?”

So saying, she fixed upon the captain her great black eyes, moist with joy and tenderness.

“Devil take me if I understand you!” exclaimed Phoebus. La Esmeralda remained silent for a moment, then a tear dropped from her eyes,—“Oh! monseigneur, I love you.”

Such a perfume of chastity, such a charm of virtue surrounded the young girl, that Phoebus did not feel completely at his ease beside her. But this remark emboldened him: “You love me!” he said with rapture, and he threw his arm round the gypsy’s waist. He had only been waiting for this opportunity.

The priest saw it, and tested with the tip of his finger the point of a poniard which he wore concealed in his breast.

“Phoebus,” continued the Bohemian, gently releasing her waist from the captain’s tenacious hands, “You are good, you are generous, you are handsome; you saved me. I had long been dreaming of an officer who should save my life. ’Twas of you that I was dreaming, before I knew you, my Phoebus. I love your name; I love your sword. Draw your sword, that I may see it.”

“Child!” said the captain, and he unsheathed his sword with a smile.

The gypsy looked at the hilt, the blade,—

“You are the sword of a brave man. I love my captain.” Phoebus again profited by the opportunity to kiss her neck, which made the young girl straighten herself up as scarlet as a poppy. The priest gnashed his teeth over it in the dark.

Phoebus seated himself beside her, but much closer than before.

“Listen, my dear—”

“No, no, I will not listen to you. Do you love me? I want you to tell me whether you love me.”

“Do I love thee, angel of my life!” exclaimed the captain, half kneeling. “My body, my blood, my soul, all are thine; all are for you. I love you, and I have never loved any one but you.”

The captain had repeated this phrase so many times, in many similar conjunctures, that he delivered it all in one breath, without committing a single mistake.

“Oh!” she murmured, “this is the moment when one should die!”

Phoebus found “the moment” favorable for robbing her of another kiss, which went to torture the unhappy archdeacon in his nook. “Die!” exclaimed the amorous captain, “What are you saying, my lovely angel? Listen then, my dear; I adore you passionately. I love you so that ’tis simply miraculous. I know a girl who is bursting with rage over it—”

The jealous girl interrupted him: “Who?”

“What matters that to us?” said Phoebus; “Do you love me?”

“Oh!”—said she.

“Well! that is all. You shall see how I love you also. We will have a pretty little house somewhere. I will make my archers parade before your windows. Eighty thousand armed men, thirty thousand white harnesses, short coats or coats of mail—”

For several moments the young girl, absorbed in her charming thoughts, was dreaming to the sound of his voice, without listening to the sense of his words.

“Oh! how happy you will be!” continued the captain, and at the same time he gently unbuckled the gypsy’s girdle.

“What are you doing?” she said quickly. This act had roused her from her dreaming.

“Nothing,” replied Phoebus, “I was only saying that you must abandon all this garb of folly, and the street corner when you are with me.”

“When I am with you, Phoebus!” said the young girl tenderly.

She became pensive and silent once more.

The captain, emboldened by her gentleness, clasped her waist without resistance; then began softly to unlace the poor child’s corsage.

The young girl allowed Phoebus to have his way. She did not appear to perceive it. The eye of the bold captain flashed.

Suddenly she turned towards him,—

“Phoebus,” she said, with an expression of infinite love, “instruct me in thy religion.”

“My religion!” exclaimed the captain, bursting with laughter, “I instruct you in my religion!  What do you want with my religion?”

“In order that we may be married,” she replied.

The captain’s face assumed an expression of mingled surprise and disdain.

“Ah, bah!” said he, “do people marry?”

The Bohemian turned pale, and her head drooped sadly on her breast.

“My beautiful love,” resumed Phoebus, tenderly, “what nonsense is this? A great thing is marriage, truly! one is none the less loving for not having done it!”

While speaking thus in his softest voice, he approached extremely near the gypsy; his caressing hands resumed their place around her waist.

Dom Claude saw everything. The door was made of thoroughly rotten cask staves, which left large apertures for the passage of his hawklike gaze. The priest, that before was condemned to the austere virginity of the cloister, was quivering and boiling in the presence of this night scene of voluptuousness. This young and beautiful girl given over in disarray to the ardent young man, made melted lead flow in his veins; his eyes darted with sensual jealousy beneath all those loosened pins. His eye shone like a candle through the cracks of the door.

All at once, Phoebus, with a rapid gesture, removed the gypsy’s gorgerette. The poor child, who had remained pale and dreamy, awoke with a start; she recoiled hastily from the officer, and, casting a glance at her bare neck and shoulders, red, confused, crossed her arms on her breast to conceal it. Her eyes were lowered.

The captain’s gesture had revealed the amulet which she wore about her neck.

“What is that?” he said, approaching her.

“Don’t touch it!” she replied, quickly, “’tis my guardian. It will make me find my family again. Oh, leave me, captain! My mother! My poor mother! Have pity, Monsieur Phoebus, give me back my gorgerette!”

Phoebus retreated and said in a cold tone,—

“Oh, mademoiselle! I see plainly that you do not love me!”

“I do not love him!” exclaimed the unhappy child, and at the same time she clung to the captain, whom she drew to a seat beside her. “I do not love thee, my Phoebus? What are you saying, to break my heart? Oh, take me! take all! do what you will with me, I am thine. What matters to me the amulet! What matters to me my mother! My soul, my life, my body, my person, all is one thing—it is yours, my captain. Well, no! We will not marry, since that displeases thee; and then, what am I? a miserable girl of the gutters. A fine thing, truly! A dancer wed an officer! I was mad. Take me! here, Phoebus, all this belongs to you, only love me! We gypsies need only air and love.”

So saying, she threw her arms round the officer’s neck and looked up at him, with a beautiful smile, and all in tears. Her delicate neck rubbed against his cloth doublet with its rough embroideries. She writhed on her knees, her beautiful body half naked. The intoxicated captain pressed his lips to her shoulders. The young girl, her eyes bent on the ceiling, as she leaned backwards, quivered beneath this kiss.

All at once, above Phoebus’s head she beheld another head; a green, livid, convulsed face; near this face was a hand grasping a poniard. It was the face and hand of the priest; he had broken the door and he was there. Phoebus could not see him. The young girl remained motionless, frozen with terror.

She could not even utter a cry. She saw the poniard descend upon Phoebus, and rise again, reeking.

“Maledictions!” said the captain, and fell.

She fainted.

At the moment when her eyes closed, when all feeling vanished in her, she thought that she felt a touch of fire imprinted upon her lips, a kiss more burning than the red-hot iron of the executioner.

When she recovered her senses, she was surrounded by soldiers of the watch they were carrying away the captain, bathed in his blood. The priest had disappeared; the window at the back of the room which opened on the river was wide open.

She heard them saying around her,

“’Tis a sorceress who has stabbed a captain.”