Book Sixth

Chapter I

The Crown Changed into a Dry Leaf

Gringoire and the entire Court of Miracles were suffering mortal anxiety. For a whole month they had not known what had become of la Esmeralda. One evening the gypsy had disappeared, and since that time nobody saw her. All search had proved fruitless.

One day, as he was passing sadly before the criminal Tournelle, Gringoire noticed a considerable crowd at one of the gates of the Palais de Justice.

“What is this?” he inquired of a young man who was coming out.

“’Tis said that they are trying a woman who hath assassinated a gendarme. It appears that there is sorcery at the bottom of it.”

Gringoire set out to follow the crowd which was mounting the staircase of the great chamber.

The hall was vast and gloomy and filled with people.

“Monsieur,” asked Gringoire a man near him, “pray what are all those fine fellows doing yonder?”

“They are judging.”

“Judging whom?”

“’Tis a woman, sir.”

“Who is the woman?” asked Gringoire. “Do you know her name?”

“No, monsieur, I have but just arrived. I merely assume that there is some sorcery about it, since the official is present at the trial.”

Here the bystanders imposed silence upon the two chatterers. They were listening to an important deposition.

“Messeigneurs,” said an old woman in the middle of the hall; “Messeigneurs, the thing is as true as that I am la Falourdel. One evening I was spinning on my wheel, there comes a knock at my door. I open. Two men enter. A man in black and a handsome officer. Of the black man nothing could be seen but his eyes, two coals of fire. All the rest was hat and cloak. They say to me,—‘The Sainte-Marthe chamber.’ We go up stairs. On arriving at the upper chamber, and while my back is turned, the black man disappears. That dazed me a bit. The officer, who was as handsome as a great lord, goes down stairs again with me. He goes out. He returns with a beautiful young girl. She had with her a goat. I show the captain and the wench to the upper chamber, and I leave them alone; that is to say, with the goat. I go down and set to spinning again—Then, all at once, I hear a cry upstairs, and something falls on the floor and the window opens. I run to mine which is beneath it, and I behold a black mass pass before my eyes and fall into the water. It was a phantom clad like a priest. It was a moonlight night. I saw him quite plainly. He was swimming in the direction of the city. Then, I call the watch. The gentlemen of the police enter. We go up stairs, and what do we find? my poor chamber all blood, the captain stretched out at full length with a dagger in his neck, the girl pretending to be dead, and a scared goat.”

The old woman ceased. A murmur of horror ran through the audience.

“That phantom, that goat,—all smacks of magic,” said one of Gringoire’s neighbors.

“No doubt about it,” joined in a third, “she is a witch who has dealings with the surly monk.”

The trial was continuing.

“You have the documents, gentlemen,” added the king’s advocate, as he took his seat; “you can consult the testimony of Phoebus de Châteaupers.”

At that name, the accused tose her head. Gringoire with horror recognized la Esmeralda.

She was pale; her lips were blue, her hollow eyes were terrible. Alas!

“Phoebus!” she said, in bewilderment; “where is he? O messeigneurs! before you kill me, tell me, for pity sake, whether he still lives?”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” replied the president.

“Oh! For mercy’s sake, tell me if he is alive!”

“Well!” said the king’s advocate roughly, “he is dying. Are you satisfied?”

The unhappy girl fell back on her criminal’s seat, speechless.

“Bailiff, bring in the second accused.”

All eyes turned towards a small door, which opened, and, to the great agitation of Gringoire, gave passage to a pretty goat with horns and hoofs of gold. Suddenly it caught sight of the gypsy girl, and was at her feet in two bounds.

“If the gentlemen please, we will proceed to the examination of the goat. If the demon which possesses this goat, and which has resisted all exorcisms, persists in its deeds of witchcraft, if it alarms the court with them, we warn it that we shall be forced to put in requisition against it the gallows or the stake.”

Gringoire broke out into a cold perspiration. Charmolue took from the table the gypsy’s tambourine, and presenting it to the goat, in a certain manner, asked the latter,—

“What o’clock is it?”

The goat looked at it with an intelligent eye, raised its gilded hoof, and struck seven blows.

It was, in fact, seven o’clock. A movement of terror ran through the crowd.

Gringoire could not endure it.

Jacques Charmolue, made the goat perform many other tricks. And, by virtue of an optical illusion peculiar to judicial proceedings, these same spectators who had, probably, more than once applauded in the public square Djali’s innocent magic were terrified by it beneath the roof of the Palais de Justice. The goat was undoubtedly the devil.

All eyes then were on the gypsy.

She showed no sign of life; nothing any longer reached her mind.

In order to arouse her, a police officer had to shake her unmercifully, and the president had to raise his voice,—

“Girl, you are of the Bohemian race, addicted to deeds of witchcraft. You, in complicity with the bewitched goat implicated in this suit, during the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and stabbed a captain of the king’s arches of the watch, Phoebus de Châteaupers. Do you persist in denying it?”

“Horror!” exclaimed the young girl, hiding her face in her hands. “My Phoebus! Oh, this is hell!”

“Do you persist in your denial?” demanded the president coldly.

“Do I deny it?” she said with terrible accents; and she rose with flashing eyes.

The president continued squarely,—

“Then how do you explain the facts laid to your charge?”

She replied in a broken voice,—

“I have already told you. I do not know. ’Twas a priest, a priest whom I do not know; an infernal priest who pursues me!”

“That is it,” retorted the judge; “the surly monk.”

“Oh, gentlemen! Have mercy! I am but a poor girl—”

“Of Egypt,” said the judge.

Master Jacques Charmolue interposed sweetly,—

“I demand the application of the torture.”

“Granted,” said the president.

The unhappy girl quivered in every limb. But she rose at the command of the men with partisans, and walked with a tolerably firm step, preceded by Charmolue and the priests of the officiality, out of the room.

Chapter II

Continuation of the Crown which was Changed into a Dry Leaf

After ascending and descending several steps in the corridors, which were so dark that they were lighted by lamps at midday, La Esmeralda, still surrounded by her escort, was thrust by the police into a gloomy chamber. There were no windows; no other opening than the entrance, which was low, and closed by an enormous iron door. All about the room were frightful instruments whose use she did not understand. In the centre lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap provided with a buckle, attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large ploughshares.

This Tartarus was called simply, The Question Chamber.

On the bed, in a negligent attitude, sat Pierrat Torterue, the official torturer.

In vain did the poor girl summon up her courage; on entering this chamber she was stricken with horror.

Master Jacques Charmolue approached the gypsy with a very sweet smile.

“My dear child,” said he, “do you still persist in your denial?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a dying voice.

“In that case,” replied Charmolue, “it will be very painful for us to have to question you more urgently than we should like. Pray take the trouble to seat yourself on this bed. Master Pierrat, make room for mademoiselle, and close the door.”

Pierrat rose with a growl.

“If I shut the door,” he muttered, “my fire will go out.”

“Well, my dear fellow,” replied Charmolue, “leave it open then.”

Meanwhile, la Esmeralda had remained standing. That leather bed frightened her. Terror chilled the very marrow of her bones; she stood there bewildered and stupefied.

“Where is the physician?” asked Charmolue.

“Here,” replied a black gown whom she had not before noticed.

She shuddered.

“Mademoiselle,” resumed the caressing voice of the procucrator, “for the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?”

This time she could only make a sign with her head.

“You persist?” said Jacques Charmolue. “Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office.”

“Monsieur le Procureur du Roi,” said Pierrat abruptly, “How shall we begin?”

Charmolue hesitated for a moment.

“With the boot,” he said at last.

The tormentor and the physician approached the girl. At the same time, the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.

At the clanking of their frightful irons, the unhappy child quivered. “Oh!” she murmured, so low that no one heard her; “Oh, my Phoebus!” Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence.

The callous hands of Pierrat Torterue’s assistants had bared her tiny foot, which had so often amazed the passers-by with its delicacy and beauty, in the squares of Paris.

“’Tis a shame!” muttered the tormentor.

Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach. Then terror restored her strength.

“Take that off!” she cried angrily; “Mercy!”

She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the king’s procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron.

“For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case?” demanded Charmolue.

“I am innocent.”

“Then, mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge?”

“Alas, monseigneur, I do not know.”

“So you deny them?”

“All!”

“Proceed,” said Charmolue to Pierrat.

Pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered a horrible cry.

“Stop!” said Charmolue to Pierrat. “Do you confess?” he said to the gypsy.

“All!” cried the wretched girl. “I confess! I confess! Mercy!”

“Humanity forces me to tell you,” remarked the king’s procurator, “that in confessing, it is death that you must expect.”

“I certainly hope so!” said she. And she fell back upon the leather bed, dying.

“Clerk, write. Young Bohemian maid, you confess your participation in the feasts, witches’ sabbaths, and witchcrafts of hell, with ghosts, hags, and vampires? Answer.”

“Yes,” she said, so low that her words were lost in her breathing.

“You confess to having adored the heads of Bophomet, those abominable idols of the Templars?”

“Yes.”

“To having had habitual dealings with the devil?”

“Yes.”

“Lastly, you avow and confess to having murdered and assassinated a captain named Phoebus de Châteaupers?”

She raised her large, staring eyes to the magistrate, and replied,—

“Yes.”

It was evident that everything within her was broken.

“Write, clerk,” said Charmolue. And, addressing the torturers, “Release the prisoner, and take her back to the court.”