Chapter III

A Tear for a Drop of Water

That crowd which the four sergeants posted at nine o’clock in the morning at the four corners of the pillory had increased rapidly. It amused itself with watching the pillory.

The victim finally arrived, bound to the tail of a cart, and when he had been hoisted upon the platform, where he could be seen from all points of the Place, bound with cords and straps upon the wheel of the pillory. The crowd had recognized Quasimodo.

Quasimodo did not wince. All resistance had been rendered impossible to him. He had allowed himself to be led, pushed, carried, lifted, bound, and bound again. Nothing was to be seen upon his countenance but the astonishment of a savage or an idiot. He was known to be deaf; one might have pronounced him to be blind.

They placed him on his knees on the circular plank; he made no resistance. They removed his shirt and doublet as far as his girdle; he allowed them to have their way. They entangled him under a fresh system of thongs and buckles; he allowed them to bind and buckle him.

The torturer stamped his foot. The wheel began to turn. Quasimodo wavered beneath his bonds. The amazement which was suddenly depicted upon his deformed face caused the bursts of laughter to redouble around him.

All at once, at the moment when the wheel in its revolution presented the humped back of Quasimodo, Master Pierrat raised his arm; the fine thongs whistled sharply through the air, and fell with fury upon the wretch’s shoulders.

Quasimodo leaped as though awakened with a start. He began to understand. He writhed in his bonds; a violent contraction of surprise and pain distorted the muscles of his face, but he uttered not a single sigh.

A second blow followed the first, then a third, and another and another, and still others. The wheel did not cease to turn, nor the blows to rain down.

Soon the blood burst forth, and could be seen trickling in a thousand threads down the hunchback’s black shoulders. Quasimodo closed his single eye, allowed his head to droop upon his breast, and waited for death.

As the time set for the punishment went out, the torturer stopped. The wheel stopped. Quasimodo’s eye opened slowly.

The scourging was finished. Two lackeys of the official torturer bathed the bleeding shoulders of the patient, anointed them with something which immediately closed all the wounds, and threw upon his back a sort of yellow vestment.

Quasimodo still had to undergo that hour of pillory. So the hunchback was fastened to the plank.

There was hardly a spectator in that crowd who had not or who did not believe that he had reason to complain of the malevolent hunchback of Notre-Dame. All cherished some rancor against him, some for his malice, others for his ugliness. The latter were the most furious.

“Oh! Mask of Antichrist!” said one.

“Rider on a broom handle!” cried another.

A thousand other insults rained down upon him, and laughter, and now and then, stones.

Quasimodo was deaf but his sight was clear, and the public fury was no less energetically depicted on their visages than in their words. Moreover, the blows from the stones explained the bursts of laughter.

At first he held his ground. But little by little that patience which had borne up under the lash of the torturer, yielded and gave way.

A passage of a mule traversed the crowd, bearing a priest. As far away as he could see that mule and that priest, the poor victim’s visage grew gentler. As soon as the mule was near enough to the pillory to allow of its rider recognizing the victim, the priest dropped his eyes and made a hasty retreat.

This priest was Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.

The cloud descended more blackly than ever upon Quasimodo’s brow.

Time passed on. He had been there at least an hour and a half, lacerated, mocked incessantly, and almost stoned.

All at once he moved again in his chains with redoubled despair, which made the whole framework that bore him tremble, and, breaking the silence which he had obstinately preserved before, cried in a hoarse and furious voice—“Drink!”

This exclamation of distress, far from exciting compassion, only added amusement to the good Parisian populace. All began to laugh.

“Drink this!” cried Robin Poussepain, throwing in his face a sponge which had been soaked in the gutter.

A woman hurled a stone at his head,—

“That will teach you to wake us up at night with your cries of a dammed soul.”

“Here’s a drinking cup!” chimed in a man, flinging a broken jug at him

“Drink!” repeated Quasimodo.

At that moment a young girl, fantastically dressed, emerged from the crowd. She was accompanied by a little white goat, and carried a tambourine in her hand.

Quasimodo’s eyes sparkled. It was the gypsy whom he had attempted to carry off on the preceding night.

She climbed ladder rapidly and approached, without uttering a syllable, and detaching a gourd from her girdle, she raised it gently to the lips of the miserable man.

Then, from that eye which had been, up to that moment, so dry and burning, a big tear was seen to fall. It was the first, in all probability, that the unfortunate man had ever shed.

Meanwhile, he had forgotten to drink. The gypsy pressed the spout to Quasimodo’s mouth, with a smile.

He drank with deep draughts. His thirst was burning.

It would have been a touching spectacle anywhere,—this beautiful, fresh, pure, and charming girl, who was at the same time so weak, thus hastening to the relief of so much misery, deformity, and malevolence.

The very populace were captivated by it, and began to clap their hands, crying,—

It was at that moment that the recluse caught sight of her, from the window of her hole, and began screaming,—

“Accursed be thou, daughter of Egypt! Accursed! Accursed!”

La Esmeralda turned pale and descended from the pillory, staggering as she went. The voice of the recluse still pursued her,—

“Descend! Descend! Thief of Egypt! Thou shalt ascend it once more!”

Volume II

Book Fifth

Chapter I

The Danger of Confiding One’s Secret to a Goat

Many weeks had elapsed.

The first of March had arrived. It was one of those spring days which possesses so much sweetness and beauty, that all Paris turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates them as though they were Sundays.

Opposite the cathedral, on the stone balcony built above the porch of a rich Gothic house, several young girls were laughing and chatting. It was easy to divine they were noble and wealthy heiresses. They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little de Champchevrier maiden. These four maidens had been confided to the discreet and venerable charge of Madame Aloïse de Gondelaurier.

The balcony opened from a chamber richly tapestried in leather. At the end of the room, in a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier.

Beside her stood a young man—one of those handsome fellows whom all women agree to admire. He wore the clothes of a captain of the king’s unattached archers.

The damoiselles each held a section of a great needlework tapestry, on which they were working in company.

They were chatting together in that whispering tone peculiar to an assembly of young girls in whose midst there is a young man. He seemed to be absorbed in polishing the buckle of his sword belt with his doeskin glove. From time to time, the old lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as well as he was able.

From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloïse, from the glances which she threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was a question of some betrothal concluded. The poor dame did not perceive the officer’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Have you ever saw a more charming face than that of your betrothed?” she was saying. “Can one be more white and blonde? are not her hands perfect? and that neck—does it not assume all the curves of the swan in ravishing fashion? Is not my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately in love with her?”

“Of course,” he replied, thinking of something else.

“But do say something,” said Madame Aloïse, suddenly giving his shoulder a push; “you have grown very timid.”

We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain’s virtue nor his defect.

“Fair cousin,” he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, “what is the subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?”

“Fair cousin,” responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, “I have already told you three times. ’Tis the grotto of Neptune.”

It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her mother through the captain’s cold and absent-minded manner. He felt the necessity of making some conversation.

“And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?”

“For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs,” answered Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.

At that moment Bérangère de Champchevrier, a maid of seven years, who was looking into the square through the balcony, exclaimed, “Oh! look, fair Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is dancing on the pavement and playing the tambourine!”

“Some gypsy from Bohemia,” said Fleur-de-Lys, turning carelessly toward the square.

“Look! look!” exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed them slowly. The captain retreated to the farther end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier released from duty. He was a man of a fickle disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in taste. He felt doubly embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; because, in consequence of having scattered his love in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her.

Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed him.

“Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom you saved a couple of months ago, while making the patrol with the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?”

“I believe so, fair cousin,” said the captain.

“Well,” she resumed, “perchance ’tis that same gypsy girl who is dancing yonder, on the church square. Come and see if you recognize her, fair Cousin Phoebus.”

A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the care which she took to call him by name. Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers slowly approached the balcony. “Stay,” said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly on Phoebus’s arm; “look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle. Is she your Bohemian?”

Phoebus looked, and said,—

“Yes, I recognize her by her goat.”

“Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!” said Amelotte, clasping her hands in admiration.

“Are his horns of real gold?” inquired Bérangère.

“Godmother!” exclaimed Bérangère, “who is that black man up yonder?”

All the young girls raised their eyes. A man was, in truth, leaning on the balustrade which surmounted the northern tower, looking on the Grève. He was a priest. His costume could be plainly discerned, and his face resting on both his hands. But he stirred no more than if he had been a statue. His eyes, intently fixed, gazed into the Place.

“’Tis monsieur the archdeacon of Josas,” said Fleur-de-Lys.

“You have good eyes if you can recognize him from here,” said the Gaillefontaine.

“How he is staring at the little dancer!” went on Diane de Christeuil.

“Let the gypsy beware!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “for he loves not Egypt.”

“’Tis a great shame for that man to look upon her thus,” added Amelotte de Montmichel, “for she dances delightfully.”

“Fair cousin Phoebus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, “Since you know this little gypsy, make her a sign to come up here. It will amuse us.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed all the young girls, clapping their hands.

“Why! ’tis not worth while,” replied Phoebus. “She has forgotten me, no doubt, and I know not so much as her name. Nevertheless, as you wish it, young ladies, I will make the trial.” And leaning over the balustrade of the balcony, he began to shout, “Little one!”

The dancer was not beating her tambourine at the moment. She turned her head towards the point whence this call proceeded, her brilliant eyes rested on Phoebus, and she stopped short.

“Little one!” repeated the captain; and he beckoned her to approach.

The young girl looked at him again, then she blushed as though a flame had mounted into her cheeks, and, taking her tambourine under her arm, made her way towards the door of the house where Phoebus was calling her.

A moment later the gypsy appeared on the threshold of the chamber, blushing, confused, breathless, her large eyes drooping, and not daring to advance another step.

Bérangère clapped her hands.

Meanwhile, the dancer remained motionless upon the threshold. Her appearance had produced a singular effect upon these young girls. They were all very nearly equal in beauty. The arrival of the gypsy suddenly destroyed this equilibrium. Her beauty was so rare, that, at the moment when she appeared, she was like a torch which has suddenly been brought from broad daylight into the dark. The noble damsels were dazzled by her in spite of themselves. Each one felt herself, in some sort, wounded in her beauty.

Hence the welcome accorded to the gypsy was marvellously glacial.

The captain was the first to break the silence. “Upon my word,” said he, in his tone of intrepid fatuity, “here is a charming creature! What think you of her, fair cousin?”

Fleur-de-Lys replied to the captain with a bland affectation of disdain;—“Not bad.”

The others whispered.

At length, Madame Aloïse, who was not the less jealous because she was so for her daughter, addressed the dancer,—“Approach, little one.”

“Approach, little one!” repeated, with comical dignity, little Bérangère, who would have reached about as high as her hips.

The gypsy advanced towards the noble dame.

“Fair child,” said Phoebus, with emphasis, taking several steps towards her, “I do not know whether I have the supreme honor of being recognized by you.”

She interrupted him, with a smile and a look full of infinite sweetness,—

“Oh! yes,” said she.

“She has a good memory,” remarked Fleur-de-Lys.

“Come, now,” resumed Phoebus, “you escaped the other evening. Did I frighten you?”

“Oh! no,” said the gypsy.

There was in the intonation of that “Oh! no,” uttered after that “Oh! yes,” an ineffable something which wounded Fleur-de-Lys.

“You left me in your stead, my beauty,” pursued the captain, whose tongue was unloosed when speaking to a girl out of the street, “the bishop’s bellringer. What the devil did hr want with you? Hey, tell me!”

“I do not know,” she replied.

“The inconceivable impudence! However, he paid dearly for it.”

“Poor man!” said the gypsy, in whom these words revived the memory of the pillory.

The captain burst out laughing.

“A handsome wench, upon my soul!”

“Rather savagely dressed,” said Diane de Christeuil, laughing to show her fine teeth.

This remark was a flash of light to the others. Not being able to attack her beauty, they attacked her costume.

“That petticoat is so short that it makes one tremble,” added la Gaillefontaine.

“My dear,” continued Fleur-de-Lys, with decided sharpness, “You will get yourself taken up by the police for your gilded girdle.”

“Little one, little one;” resumed la Christeuil, with an implacable smile, “if you were to put respectable sleeves upon your arms they would get less sunburned.”

It was, in truth, a spectacle worthy of a more intelligent spectator than Phoebus, to see how these beautiful maidens, with their envenomed and angry tongues, writhed around the street dancer. They were cruel and graceful. After all, what was a miserable dancer on the public squares in the presence of these high-born maidens?

The gypsy was not insensible to these pin-pricks. From time to time a flush of shame, a flash of anger inflamed her eyes or her cheeks; she fixed on Phoebus a sad, sweet, resigned look.

Phoebus laughed.

“Let them talk, little one!” he repeated. “No doubt your toilet is a little extravagant and wild, but what difference does that make with such a charming damsel as yourself?”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the blonde Gaillefontaine. “I see that messieurs the archers of the king’s police easily take fire at the handsome eyes of gypsies!”

“Why not?” said Phoebus.

The gypsy, who had dropped her eyes on the floor at the words of Colombe de Gaillefontaine, raised them beaming with joy and pride and fixed them once more on Phoebus. She was very beautiful at that moment.

This was when the goat came in, who had just arrived, in search of his mistress.

“Oh! Here’s the little goat with golden hoofs!” exclaimed Bérangère, dancing with joy.

Diane had bent down to Colombe’s ear.

“Ah! Good heavens! Why did not I think of that sooner? ’Tis the gypsy with the goat. They say she is a sorceress, and that her goat executes very miraculous tricks.”

“Well!” said Colombe, “the goat must now amuse us in its turn, and perform a miracle for us.”

Diane and Colombe eagerly addressed the gypsy.

“Little one, make your goat perform a miracle.”

“I do not understand.” And she fell to caressing the pretty animal, repeating, “Djali! Djali!”

At that moment Fleur-de-Lys noticed a little bag suspended from the neck of the goat,—

“What is that?” she asked of the gypsy.

The gypsy raised her large eyes upon her and replied gravely,—

“That is my secret.”

“I should really like to know what your secret is,” thought Fleur-de-Lys.

Meanwhile, the good dame had risen angrily,—“Come now, gypsy, if neither you nor your goat can dance for us, what are you doing here?”

The gypsy walked slowly towards the door, without making any reply.

“True God!” exclaimed the captain, “that’s not the way to depart. Come back and dance something for us. By the way, my sweet love, what is your name?”

“La Esmeralda,” said the dancer, never taking her eyes from him.

In the meantime, Bérangère had coaxed the goat into a corner of the room with a marchpane cake. In an instant they had become good friends. The curious child had detached the bag from the goat’s neck, had opened it, and had emptied out its contents; it was an alphabet, each letter of which was separately inscribed on a tiny block of boxwood. The child saw, with surprise, the goat, draw out certain letters with its golden hoof, and arrange them in a certain order.

“Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, see what the goat has just done!”

Fleur-de-Lys ran up. The letters arranged upon the floor formed this word,—

PHOEBUS

“Was it the goat who wrote that?” she inquired in a changed voice.

“Yes, godmother,” replied Bérangêre.

It was impossible to doubt it; the child did not know how to write.

“This is the secret!” thought Fleur-de-Lys.

“Phoebus!” whispered the young girls, stupefied: “’tis the captain’s name!”

“You have a marvellous memory!” said Fleur-de-Lys, to the petrified gypsy. Then, bursting into sobs: “Oh!” she stammered mournfully, hiding her face in both her beautiful hands, “she is a magician!” And she heard another and a still more bitter voice at the bottom of her heart, saying,—“She is a rival!”

She fell fainting.

“My daughter! my daughter!” cried the terrified mother. “Begone, you gypsy of hell!”

La Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters, made a sign to Djali, and went out through one door, while Fleur-de-Lys was being carried out through the other.

Captain Phoebus, on being left alone, hesitated for a moment between the two doors, then he followed the gypsy.