Book Eighth

Chapter I

Gringoire Has Many Good Ideas in Succession

One day Pierre Gringoire was devoutly examining an exterior of a building. He was in one of those moments of egotistical, exclusive, supreme, enjoyment when the artist beholds nothing in the world but art. All at once he feelt a hand laid gravely on his shoulder. He turned the archdeacon.

He was stupefied.

The archdeacon maintained silence for several minutes, during which Gringoire had time to observe him. He found Dom Claude greatly changed; pale as a winter’s morning, with hollow eyes, and hair almost white. The priest broke the silence at length, by saying, in a tranquil but glacial tone,—

“How do you do, Master Pierre? And what are you doing now?”

“Master! I am examining the chiselling of these stones.”

The priest began to smile.

“And how do you earn your living now?”

“I still make epics and tragedies now and then; but that which brings me in most is the industry with which you are acquainted, master; carrying pyramids of chairs in my teeth.”

After a silence, the priest resumed,—

“You are, nevertheless, tolerably poor?”

“Poor, yes; unhappy, no.”

“Come away from here,” said the priest. “I have something to say to you.”

They reached in silence the Rue des Bernardins, which was nearly deserted. Here Dom Claude paused.

“Pierre Gringoire,” said the archdeacon, “What have you done with that little gypsy dancer?”

“La Esmeralda? You change the conversation very abruptly.”

“Was she not your wife?”

“Yes, by virtue of a broken crock. We were to have four years of it. By the way,” added Gringoire, looking at the archdeacon in a half bantering way, “are you still thinking of her?”

“And you think of her no longer?”

“Very little. I have so many things. Good heavens, how pretty that little goat was!”

“Well, what has become of her? What have you done with her?”

“I cannot tell you. I believe that they have hanged her.”

“You believe so?”

“I am not sure. When I saw that they wanted to hang people, I retired from the game.”

“That is all you know of it?”

“Wait a bit. I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame, and that she was safe there.”

“I will tell you more,” cried Dom Claude; and his voice, low, slow, and almost indistinct, turned to thunder. “She has in fact, taken refuge in Notre-Dame. But in three days justice will reclaim her, and she will be hanged on the Grève. There is a decree of parliament.”

The archdeacon resumed after a silence,—

“So, she saved your life?”

“Among my good friends the outcasts. A little more or a little less and I should have been hanged. They would have been sorry for it to-day.”

“Would not you like to do something for her?”

Gringoire smote his brow in his turn.

“Listen, master. I have imagination; I will devise expedients for you. What if one were to ask her pardon from the king?”

“Of Louis XI! A pardon!”

“Why not?”

“She must leave that place, nevertheless!” he murmured, “the decree is to be executed within three days. Moreover, there will be no decree; that Quasimodo! Women have very depraved tastes!” He raised his voice: “Master Pierre, I have reflected well; there is but one means of safety for her.”

“What? I see none myself.”

“Listen, Master Pierre, remember that you owe your life to her. I will tell you my idea frankly. The church is watched night and day; only those are allowed to come out, who have been seen to enter. Hence you can enter. You will come. I will lead you to her. You will change clothes with her. She will take your doublet; you will take her petticoat.”

“So far, it goes well,” remarked the philosopher, “and then?”

“And then? She will go forth in your garments; you will remain with hers. You will be hanged, perhaps, but she will be saved.”

Gringoire scratched his ear, with a very serious air. “That is an idea which would never have occurred to me unaided.”

“Well! Gringoire, what say you to the means?”

“Listen, Dom Claude,” replied the poet. “I do not see why I should get myself hanged in some one else’s place.”

The priest was vehement. Gringoire listened to him at first with an undecided air, then he became touched, and wound up with a grimace which made his pallid face resemble that of a new-born infant with an attack of the colic.

“’Tis a death worthy of a sage who has wavered all his life. ’Tis a philosopher’s death, and I was destined thereto, perchance. It is magnificent to die as one has lived.”

The archdeacon gave him his hand: “It is settled, then? You will come to-morrow?”

This gesture recalled Gringoire to reality.

“Ah! i’ faith no!” he said in the tone of a man just waking up. “Be hanged! ’tis too absurd. I will not.”

“Farewell, then!” and the archdeacon added between his teeth: “I’ll find you again!”

“I do not want that devil of a man to find me,” thought Gringoire; and he ran after Dom Claude. “Stay, monsieur the archdeacon, no ill-feeling between old friends! You take an interest in that girl, my wife, I mean, and ’tis well. You have devised a scheme to get her out of Notre-Dame, but your way is extremely disagreeable to me, Gringoire. If I had only another one myself! If I possessed a solution, possible without me compromising my own neck? Will not that suffice you?”

“What is your plan?”

“Yes,” resumed Gringoire, “The thieves are brave fellows!—The tribe of Egypt love her!—They will rise at the first word!—Nothing easier!—A sudden stroke.—Under cover of the disorder, they will easily carry her off!—Beginning tomorrow evening. They will ask nothing better.”

He broke off.

“Oh, by the way! Is the little goat with the wench?”

“Yes. The devil take you!”

“They would have hanged it also, would they not?”

“What is that to me?”

“Yes, they would have hanged it. They hanged a sow last month. The headsman loveth that; he eats the beast afterwards. Take my pretty Djali! Poor little lamb!”

Chapter II

Turn Vagabond

On re-entering the cloister, the archdeacon found at the door of his cell his brother Jehan du Moulin, who was waiting for him.

Dom Claude hardly looked at his brother; his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Brother,” said Jehan timidly, “I am come to see you.”

The archdeacon did not even raise his eyes.

“What then?”

“Brother,” resumed the hypocrite, “you are so good to me, and you give me such wise counsels that I always return to you.”

“What next?”

“Alas! Brother, you were perfectly right when you said to me,—“Jehan, be wise, Jehan, be learned, Jehan, pass not the night outside of the college without lawful occasion and due leave of the master. Jehan, allow yourself to be punished at the discretion of the master. Jehan go every evening to chapel, and sing there an anthem with verse and orison to Madame the glorious Virgin Mary.”—Alas! what excellent advice was that!”

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” said the scholar. “A little money.”

“I have none.”

Then the scholar said, with an air which was both grave and resolute: “Well, brother, I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that in that case I shall become a professional vagabond.”

The archdeacon said coldly to him,—

“Become a vagabond.”

Jehan made him a deep bow, and descended the cloister stairs, whistling.

Chapter III

Long Live Mirth

At the tavern at the Court of Miracles, on the bench near the chimney, sat a philosopher meditating. It was Pierre Gringoire.

“Be quick! Make haste, arm yourselves! We set out on the march in an hour!” said Clopin Trouillefou to his thieves.

The vagabonds continued to arm themselves and whisper to each other.

“That poor Esmeralda!” said a Bohemian. “She is our sister. She must be taken away from there.”

“Is she still at Notre-Dame?” went on a merchant with the appearance of a Jew.

“Yes!”

“Well! comrades!” exclaimed the merchant, “to Notre-Dame! So much the better, since there are in the chapel of Saints Féréol and Ferrution two statues, the one of John the Baptist, the other of Saint-Antoine, of solid gold, weighing together seven marks of gold and fifteen estellins; and the pedestals are of silver-gilt, of seventeen marks, five ounces. I know that; I am a goldsmith.”

Clopin Trouillefou had finished the distribution of arms and approached the Duke of Egypt.

“Comrade Mathias, the time we have chosen is not a good one. King Louis XI is said to be in Paris.”

“Another reason for snatching our sister from his claws,” replied the old Bohemian.

“You speak like a man, Mathias,” said the King of Thunes. “Moreover, we will act promptly. No resistance is to be feared in the church. I don’t want them to hang the pretty girl!”

Clopin quitted the dram-shop.

Gringoire, torn from his meditations, began to watch the wild and noisy scene which surrounded him.

At that moment, Clopin returned and shouted in a voice of thunder: “Midnight!”

At this word, which produced the effect of the call to boot and saddle on a regiment at a halt, all the outcasts, men, women, children, rushed in a mass from the tavern, with great noise of arms and old iron implements.

The moon was obscured.

The Court of Miracles was entirely dark. There was not a single light. One could make out there a throng of men and women conversing in low tones. They could be heard buzzing, and a gleam of all sorts of weapons was visible in the darkness. Clopin mounted a large stone.

“To your ranks!” he cried. “Fall into line, Egypt! Form ranks, Galilee!”

A movement began in the darkness. The immense multitude appeared to form in a column. After a few minutes, the King of Thunes raised his voice once more,—

“Now, silence to march through Paris! The password is, ‘Little sword in pocket!’ The torches will not be lighted till we reach Notre-Dame! Forward, march!”

Ten minutes later, the cavaliers of the watch fled in terror before a long procession of black and silent men which was descending towards the Pont au Change.