Chapter V

The Mother

One May morning, the recluse of the Tour-Roland heard a sound of wheels, of horses and irons in the Place de Grève. She tried to resume her contemplation, on her knees, of the inanimate object which she had adored for fifteen years. This little shoe was the universe to her, as we have already said.

It seemed as though her grief were breaking forth more violently than usual.

“Oh my daughter!” she said, “my daughter, my poor, dear little child, so I shall never see thee more! It is over! It always seems to me that it happened yesterday! My God!”

The unhappy woman flung herself upon that shoe; her consolation and her despair for so many years, and her vitals were rent with sobs as on the first day; because, for a mother who has lost her child, it is always the first day. That grief never grows old.

At that moment, cries of children passed in front of the cell. One of the voices said,—

“They are going to hang a gypsy today.”

She rushed to her air-hole, which opened on the Place de Grève. A ladder had, in fact, been raised up against the permanent gibbet, and the hangman’s assistant was busying himself with adjusting the chains. There were some people standing about.

Beside her cell, she saw a priest.

“Father,” she inquired, “whom are they about to hang today?”

The priest looked at her and made no reply; she repeated her question. Then he said,—

“I know not.”

“Some children said that it was a gypsy,” went on the recluse.

“I believe so,” said the priest.

Then Paquette la Chantefleurie burst into hyena-like laughter.

“Sister,” said the archdeacon, “do you then hate the gypsies heartily?”

“Do I hate them!” exclaimed the recluse, “they are vampires, stealers of children! They devoured my little daughter, my child, my only child! I have no longer any heart, they devoured it!”

She was frightful. The priest looked at her coldly.

“There is one in particular whom I hate, and whom I have cursed,” she resumed; “it is a young one, of the age which my daughter would be if her mother had not eaten my daughter.”

“Well, sister, rejoice,” said the priest; “that is the one whom you are about to see die.”

His head fell upon his bosom and he moved slowly away.

The recluse writhed her arms with joy.

“I predicted it for her, that she would ascend thither! Thanks, priest!” she cried.

Chapter VI

Three Human Hearts Differently Constructed

Phoebus was not dead, however. Men of that stamp die hard. When Master Philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary of the king, had said to poor Esmeralda; “He is dying,” it was an error or a jest. When the archdeacon had repeated to the condemned girl; “He is dead,” the fact is that he knew nothing about it, but that he believed it, that he counted on it, that he did not doubt it, that he devoutly hoped it.

It was not that Phoebus’s wound had not been serious, but it had not been as much so as the archdeacon believed. The physician had feared for his life during the space of a week. But youth had gained the upper hand; and nature had amused herself by saving the sick man under the physician’s very nose.

This had not, however, interfered with the progress of the trial. The judge had plenty of proofs against la Esmeralda. They thought Phoebus to be dead, and that was the end of the matter.

Phoebus, on his side, had not fled far. He had simply rejoined his company in garrison at Queue-en-Brie, in the Isle-de-France, a few stages from Paris.

After all, it did not please him in the least to appear in this suit. On the whole, he did not know what to think of the whole affair. Moreover, he hoped that the affair would not get noised abroad, that his name would hardly be pronounced in it,.

Phoeus’s mind was soon at ease on the score of the enchantress Esmeralda, concerning the blow from the dagger of the Bohemian or of the surly monk (it mattered little which to him), and the issue of the trial. Ss soon as his heart was vacant in that direction, Fleur-de-Lys returned to it. Captain Phoebus’s heart, like the physics of that day, abhorred a vacuum.

One fine morning, quite cured, and assuming that the Bohemian affair must be completely finished and forgotten, the amorous cavalier arrived at the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.

He paid no attention to a tolerably numerous rabble which had assembled in the Place du Paris, before the portal of Notre-Dame; he remembered that it was the month of May; he supposed that it was some procession, some festival, hitched his horse to the ring at the door, and went to his beautiful betrothed.

She was alone with her mother.

The scene of the witch, her goat, her cursed alphabet, and Phoebus’s long absences, still weighed on Fleur-de-Lys’s heart. Nevertheless, when she beheld her captain enter, she thought him so handsome, that she blushed with pleasure.

Phoebus, who had seen nothing in the line of beauty for a long time, was intoxicated with Fleur-de-Lys, which made him so gallant, that his peace was immediately made.

“What has become of you these two long months, wicked man?” asked Fleur-de-Lys.

“I swear to you,” replied Phoebus, somewhat embarrassed by the question, “that you are beautiful enough to set an archbishop to dreaming.”

She could not repress a smile.

“Good, good, sir. Let my beauty alone and answer my question.”

“Well, my dear cousin, I was recalled to the garrison.

“Why did you not come to see me a single time?”

Here Phoebus was rather seriously embarrassed.

“Because—the service—and then, charming cousin, I have been ill.”

“Ill!” she repeated in alarm.

“Yes, wounded!”

“Wounded!”

“Oh! It was nothing. A sword cut; what is that to you?”

“What is that to me?” exclaimed Fleur-de-Lys. “Oh! What sword cut was that? I wish to know all.”

“Well, my dear fair one, I had a falling out with the lieutenant of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and we ripped open a few inches of skin for each other. That is all. Fair cousin,” he exclaimed, for the sake of changing the conversation, “what noise is this in the Cathedral Square?”

He approached the window.

“I know not,” said Fleur-de-Lys; “it appears that a witch is to do penance this morning before the church, and thereafter to be hung.”

The captain was so convinced that la Esmeralda’s affair was concluded, that he was but little disturbed by Fleur-de-Lys’s words. Still, he asked her one or two questions.

“What is the name of this witch?”

“I do not know,” she replied.

“And what is she said to have done?”

She shrugged her white shoulders.

“I know not.”

Both were silent. The young girl raised sweet, enraptured eyes to him.

“Phoebus,” said Fleur-de-Lys, “we are to be married three months hence; swear to me that you have never loved any other woman than myself.”

“I swear it, fair angel!” replied Phoebus.

She rose, ran to the window, opened it, and went upon the balcony.

Phoebus, much discomfited, followed her.

An immense crowd, which overflowed into all the neighboring streets, encumbered the Place, properly speaking. All were waiting for the spectacle.

“Oh, God!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “the poor creature!”

At that moment, midday rang slowly out from the clock of Notre-Dame. A murmur of satisfaction broke out in the crowd. An immense shout went up from the pavement, the windows, and the roofs,

“There she is!”

Fleur-de-Lys pressed her hands to her eyes to not see.

“Charming girl,” said Phoebus, “do you wish to withdraw?”

“No,” she replied; and she opened through curiosity, the eyes which she had closed through fear.

The sergeants of the watch were clearing a passage for a cart. In it sat a young girl with her arms tied behind her back. Her long black hair fell in disorder upon her shoulders. A thick, rough rope was visible on her neck. Beneath that rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with bits of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, because nothing is refused to those who are about to die.

“Jesus!” said Fleur-de-Lys hastily to the captain. “Look fair cousin, ’tis that wretched Bohemian with the goat.”

So saying, she turned to Phoebus. His eyes were fixed on the cart. He was very pale.

“What Bohemian with the goat?” he stammered.

“What!” resumed Fleur-de-Lys, “do you not remember?”

Phoebus interrupted her.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“What is the matter with you?” she said to Phoebus, “one would say, that this woman had disturbed you.”

Phoebus forced a sneer,—

“Me! Not the least in the world!”

“Remain, then!” she continued imperiously, “and let us see the end.”

The unlucky captain was obliged to remain. He was somewhat reassured by the fact that the condemned girl never removed her eyes from the bottom of the cart. It was but too surely la Esmeralda.

The cart stopped before the central portal of the cathedral. The escort ranged themselves in line on both sides.

The unhappy girl’s lips moved as though in prayer, and the headsman’s assistant who approached to assist her to get off from the cart, heard her repeating this word in a low tone,—“Phoebus.”

They untied her hands, made her alight, accompanied by her goat, which had also been unbound: and they made her walk barefoot on the hard pavement to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her neck trailed behind her.

A few moments later, a long procession of priests and deacons, marched gravely towards the condemned girl, as they drawled their song, spread out before her view and that of the crowd. But her glance rested on the one who marched at the head, immediately after the cross-bearer.

“Oh!” she said in a low voice, and with a shudder, “’tis he again! The priest!”

It was in fact, the archdeacon. He advanced with head thrown back, his eyes fixed and wide open, chanting.

She hardly noticed that they had placed in her hand a heavy, lighted candle of yellow wax; she; when they told her to respond with Amen, she responded Amen.

The archdeacon approached her slowly; even in that extremity, she saw his eyes sperkling with sensuality, jealousy, and desire over her exposed form. Then he said aloud,—

“Young girl, have you asked God’s pardon for your faults and shortcomings?”

He bent down to her ear, and added (the spectators supposed that he was receiving her last confession): “Will you have me? I can still save you!”

She looked intently at him: “Begone, demon, or I will denounce you!”

He gave vent to a horrible smile: “You will not be believed. Reply quickly! Will you have me?”

“What have you done with my Phoebus?”

“He is dead!” said the priest.

At that moment the archdeacon raised his head mechanically and saw at the other end of the Place, in the balcony of the Gondelaurier mansion, the captain standing beside Fleur-de-Lys. He staggered, passed his hand across his eyes, looked again, muttered a curse, and all his features were violently contorted.

“Well, die then!” he hissed between his teeth. “No one shall have you.” Then, raising his hand over the gypsy, he exclaimed in a funereal voice:—“I nunc, anima anceps, et sit tibi Deus misericors!”

It was the signal agreed upon between the priest and the executioner.

The crowd knelt.

The archdeacon turned his back on the condemned girl, his head sank upon his breast once more, he crossed his hands and rejoined his escort of priests.

At the same time, the clash of the iron butts of the beadles’ halberds, gradually dying away among the columns of the nave, produced the effect of a clock hammer striking the last hour.

The doors of Notre-Dame remained open, allowing a view of the empty desolate church, draped in mourning, without candles, and without voices.

The condemned girl remained motionless in her place, waiting to be disposed of. She raised her dry, red eyes to heaven, to the sun, to the silvery clouds; then she lowered them to objects around her, to the earth, the houses; all at once she uttered a terrible cry, a cry of joy. There, on that balcony, at the corner of the Place, she had just caught sight of him, Phoebus!

The judge had lied! The priest had lied! It was certainly he, she could not doubt it!

“Phoebus!” she cried, “my Phoebus!”

And she tried to stretch her arms towards him, but they were bound.

Then she saw the captain frown, a beautiful young girl who was leaning against him look at her with disdain; then Phoebus uttered some words and both disappeared inside.

“Phoebus!” she cried wildl. A monstrous thought had just presented itself to her. She remembered that she had been condemned to death for his murder.

This last blow was too harsh. She fell lifeless on the pavement.

“Come,” said Charmolue, “carry her to the cart, and make an end of it.”

In the gallery of the statues of the kings, carved directly above the arches of the portal, a strange spectator observed everything. He fastened to one of the small columns a large knotted rope. At the moment when the superintendent’s assistants were preparing to execute Charmolue’s order, he threw his leg over the balustrade of the gallery, seized the rope with his feet, his knees and his hands; then he was seen to glide down the façade, rush to the two executioners, knock them down, pick up the gypsy with one hand, as a child would her doll, and dash back into the church with a single bound, lifting the young girl above his head and crying in a formidable voice,—

“Sanctuary!”

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” repeated the crowd; and the clapping of ten thousand hands made Quasimodo’s single eye sparkle with joy and pride.

This shock restored the condemned girl to her senses. She raised her eyelids, looked at Quasimodo, then closed them again suddenly, as though terrified by her deliverer.

Within the bounds of Notre-Dame, the condemned girl could not be touched. The cathedral was a place of refuge.

Quasimodo had halted beneath the great portal, his huge feet seemed as solid on the pavement of the church. He carried the girl with as much care as though he feared to break her.

After several moments of triumph, Quasimodo had plunged abruptly into the church with his burden. The populace sought him with their eyes, regretting that he had so speedily disappeared from their acclamations.