Chapter II

A Priest and a Philosopher are Two Different Things

The priest whom the young girls had observed at the top of the North tower, was, in fact, Archdeacon Claude Frollo.

There he stood, grave, motionless, absorbed in one look and one thought. All Paris lay at his feet; but out of all the city, the archdeacon gazed at one figure,—the gypsy.

It would have been difficult to say what was the nature of this look, and whence proceeded the flame that flashed from it.

The gypsy was dancing; she was twirling her tambourine on the tip of her finger, and tossing it into the air as she danced; agile, light, joyous, and unconscious of the formidable gaze which descended perpendicularly upon her head.

The crowd was swarming around her; from time to time, a man accoutred in red and yellow made them form into a circle, and then returned, seated himself on a chair a few paces from the dancer, and took the goat’s head on his knees. This man seemed to be the gypsy’s companion. Claude Frollo could not distinguish his features from his elevated post.

From the moment when the archdeacon caught sight of this stranger, his attention seemed divided between him and the dancer, and his face became more and more gloomy. All at once he rose upright, and a quiver ran through his whole body: “Who is that man?” he muttered between his teeth: “I have always seen her alone before!”

He went to the spiral staircase and descended. As he passed the door of the bell chamber, which was ajar, he saw something which struck him; Quasimodo appeared also to be gazing at the Place. He continued his descent. At the end of a few minutes, the anxious archdeacon entered upon the Place from the door at the base of the tower.

“What has become of the gypsy girl?” he said, mingling with the group of spectators which the sound of the tambourine had collected.

“I know not,” replied one of his neighbors, “I think that she has gone to make some of her fandangoes in the house opposite, they have called her.”

In the place of the gypsy, on the carpet, the archdeacon no longer beheld any one but the red and yellow man. He recognized his face.

“What is Master Pierre Gringoire doing here?”

The harsh voice of the archdeacon threw the poor fellow into a commotion.

“Come now, Master Pierre. You are to explain many things to me. And first of all, how comes it that you have not been seen for two months, and that now one finds you in the public squares, performing?”

“But what would you have done, messire? One must eat every day.”

“Very good, Master Pierre; but how comes it that you are now in company with that gypsy dancer?”

“In faith!” said Gringoire, “’tis because she is my wife and I am her husband.”

The priest’s gloomy eyes flashed into flame.

“Have you done that, you wretch!” he cried, seizing Gringoire’s arm with fury; “have you been so abandoned by God as to raise your hand against that girl?”

“On my chance of paradise, monseigneur,” replied Gringoire, trembling in every limb, “I swear to you that I have never touched her, if that is what disturbs you.”

“Then why do you talk of husband and wife?” said the priest. Gringoire made haste to relate to him as succinctly as possible his adventure in the Court of Miracles. “’Tis a mortification,” he said in conclusion, “but that is because I have had the misfortune to wed a virgin.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the archdeacon.

“’Tis very difficult to explain,” replied the poet. “It is a superstition. My wife is, a foundling or a lost child, which is the same thing. She wears on her neck an amulet which, it is affirmed, will cause her to meet her parents some day, but which will lose its virtue if the young girl loses hers. Hence it follows that both of us remain very virtuous.”

“So,” resumed Claude, “you believe, Master Pierre, that this creature has not been approached by any man?”

“What would you have a man do, Dom Claude, as against a superstition? She has got that in her head. She has three things to protect her: the Duke of Egypt, who has taken her under his safeguard; all his tribe; and a certain tiny poignard, which she always wears about her!”

The archdeacon pressed Gringoire with questions.

He mentioned that Esmeralda believed herself to be hated, in all the city, by but two persons, of whom she often spoke in terror: the sacked nun of the Tour-Roland, who cursed the poor dancer every time that the latter passed before her window; and a priest, who never met her without casting at her looks and words which frightened her.

The mention of this last circumstance disturbed the archdeacon greatly, though Gringoire paid no attention to his perturbation. He continued explaining how every morning, he set out from the lair of the thieves, generally with the gypsy; he helped her make her collections in the squares; each evening he returned to the same roof with her, allowed her to bolt herself into her little chamber, and slept the sleep of the just. And then, on his soul and conscience, the philosopher was not very sure that he was madly in love with the gypsy. He loved her goat almost as dearly. It was a charming animal, gentle, intelligent, clever; a learned goat. Two months had sufficed to teach the goat to write, with movable letters, the word “Phoebus.”

“‘Phoebus!’” said the priest; “why ‘Phoebus’?”

“I know not,” replied Gringoire. “She often repeats it in a low tone when she thinks that she is alone.”

“Are you sure,” persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, “that it is only a word and not a name?”

“The name of whom?” said the poet.

“How should I know?” said the priest.

“It does not concern me. Let her mumble her Phoebus at her pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he does her.”

“Who is Djali?”

“The goat.”

The archdeacon dropped his chin into his hand, and appeared to reflect for a moment. All at once he turned abruptly to Gringoire once more.

“And do you swear to me that you have not touched her?”

“Whom?” said Gringoire; “the goat?”

“No, that woman.”

“My wife? I swear to you that I have not.”

“You are often alone with her?”

“A good hour every evening.”

“Swear to me, by the body of your mother,” repeated the archdeacon violently, “that you have not touched that creature with even the tip of your finger.”

“I will also swear it by the head of my father. But permit me a question in my turn.”

“Speak, sir.”

“What concern is it of yours?”

The archdeacon’s pale face became as crimson as the cheek of a young girl. He remained for a moment without answering; then, with visible embarrassment,—

“Listen, Master Pierre Gringoire. You are not yet damned, so far as I know. You know that ’tis always the body which ruins the soul. Woe to you if you approach that woman! That is all.”

And with that, he went back into the cathedral.

Chapter III

The Bells

After the morning in the pillory, the neighbors of Notre-Dame thought they noticed that Quasimodo’s ardor for ringing had grown cool. One was constantly conscious of the presence of a spirit of noise and caprice, who sang through all the bells. Now that spirit seemed to have departed; the cathedral seemed gloomy, and remained silent; festivals and funerals had the simple peal, dry and bare, demanded by the ritual, nothing more. Quasimodo was always there, nevertheless; what, then, had happened to him? Was it that the shame and despair of the pillory? or was it that Marie had a rival in the heart of the bellringer of Notre-Dame?

It chanced that, on the twenty-fifth of March Quasimodo felt some returning affection for his bells. On arriving in the lofty bell chamber, Quasimodo gazed for some time at the six bells and shook his head sadly, as though groaning over some foreign element which had interposed itself in his heart between them and him. But when he had set them to swinging, when he felt that cluster of bells moving under his hand, he became happy once more.

He went and came, he ran from rope to rope, he animated the six singers with voice and gesture, like the leader of an orchestra.

He was wholly absorbed in spurring on his bells.

Them he saw on the square a young girl, fantastically dressed, stop, spread out on the ground a carpet, on which a small goat took up its post, and a group of spectators collect around her. This sight suddenly changed the course of his ideas. He halted, turned his back to the bells, and fixed upon the dancer that dreamy, sweet, and tender look which had already astonished the archdeacon on one occasion. Meanwhile, the forgotten bells died away abruptly and all together.

Chapter IV

ἈΝÁΓΚΗ

On the morning of the 29th of March, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, perceived that his purse has ruyn dry. To resolve this situation, he resolved, “So much the worse! I am going to my brother! I shall catch a sermon, but I shall catch a crown.”

Then he hastily went out like a man driven to desperation.

Once he made it to the cathedral, he stopped a beadle,—“Where is monsieur the archdeacon of Josas?”

“I believe that he is in his secret cell in the tower,” said the beadle; “I should advise you not to disturb him there, unless you come from some one like the pope or monsieur the king.”

Jehan clapped his hands.

“Here’s a magnificent chance to see the famous sorcery cell!”

This reflection having brought him to a decision, he plunged resolutely into the small black doorway, and began the ascent the spiral stairs, which leads to the upper stories of the tower. Several moments after passing the bell chamber, he came upon a little landing-place, built in a lateral niche, and a pointed door.

“Ugh!” said the scholar; “’tis here, no doubt.”

The key was in the lock, the door was very close to him; he gave it a gentle push and thrust his head through the opening.

It also a gloomy room. There was a large arm-chair and a large table, compasses, alembics, skeletons of animals suspended from the ceiling, a globe rolling on the floor, huge manuscripts piled up wide open; in short, all the rubbish of science, and everywhere on this confusion dust and spiders’ webs.

Nevertheless, the cell was not deserted. A man was seated in the arm-chair, bending over the table. Jehan, to whom his back was turned, could see only his shoulders and the back of his skull; but he knew this was his brother.

The door had been opened so softly, that nothing warned Dom Claude of his presence. The inquisitive scholar took advantage of this circumstance to examine the cell for a few moments at his leisure.

There were inscriptions written on the walls; some traced with ink, others engraved with a metal point. There were, moreover, Gothic letters, Hebrew letters, Greek letters, and Roman letters; the inscriptions overflowed on top of each other, and all entangled with each other, like the branches in a thicket.

The whole chamber, moreover, looked dilapidated; it induced the supposition that their owner had long been distracted from his labors by other preoccupations. That at least was Jehan’s idea, when he heard him exclaim,—

“Yes, Manou said it, and Zoroaster taught it! the sun is born from fire, the moon from the sun; fire is the soul of the universe; its elementary atoms pour forth and flow incessantly upon the world through infinite channels! At the point where these currents intersect each other in the heavens, they produce light; at their points of intersection on earth, they produce gold. Light, gold; the same thing! What! this light which inundates my hand is gold! These same atoms dilated in accordance with a certain law need only be condensed in accordance with another law. How is it to be done?”

“The devil!” said Jehan to himself.

“Magistri affirms that there are certain feminine names, which possess a charm so sweet and mysterious, that it suffices to pronounce them during the operation. Let us read what Manon says on the matter: ‘Where women are honored, the divinities are rejoiced; where they are despised, it is useless to pray to God. The mouth of a woman is constantly pure; it is a running water, it is a ray of sunlight. The name of a woman should be agreeable, sweet, fanciful; it should end in long vowels, and resemble words of benediction.’ Yes, the sage is right; in truth, Maria, Sophia, la Esmeral—Damnation! Always that thought!”

And he closed the book violently.

“For some time,” he said with a bitter smile, “I have failed in all my experiments! one fixed idea possesses me, and sears my brain like fire. A simple matter, nevertheless—”

“What nonsense!” thought Jehan.

“Let us see, let us try!” resumed the archdeacon briskly. “Were I to succeed, I should behold the blue spark flash from the head of the nail. Emen-Hétan! Emen-Hétan! That’s not it. Sigéani! Sigéani! May this nail open the tomb to any one who bears the name of Phoebus! A curse upon it! Always and eternally!”

And he flung away the hammer in a rage. Then he sank down so deeply on the arm-chair and the table, that Jehan lost him from view. Suddenly, Dom Claude sprang up, seized a compass and engraved in silence upon the wall in capital letters, this Greek word

ἈΝÁΓΚΗ

“My brother is mad,” said Jehan to himself; “it would have been far more simple to write Fatum, every one is not obliged to know Greek.”

The archdeacon returned and seated himself in his armchair, and placed his head on both his hands, as a sick man does, whose head is heavy and burning.

The student understood that he had seen what he ought not to have seen. He withdrew his head very softly, and made some noise with his feet outside the door, like a person who has just arrived and is giving warning of his approach.

“Enter!” cried the archdeacon, from the interior of his cell; “I was expecting you. I left the door unlocked; enter Master Jacques!”

The scholar entered boldly. The archdeacon, who was very much embarrassed by such a visit in such a place, trembled in his arm-chair. “What! ’tis you, Jehan?”

“Yes,” said the scholar.

Dom Claude’s visage had resumed its severe expression.

“What are you come for?”

“Brother,” replied the scholar, making an effort to sound pitiful and modest; “I am come to ask of you—”

“What?”

“A little lecture on morality, of which I stand greatly in need,” Jehan did not dare to add aloud,—“and a little money of which I am in still greater need.” This last member of his phrase remained unuttered.

“Monsieur,” said the archdeacon, in a cold tone, “I am greatly displeased with you.”

Dom Claude gazed intently at Jehan.

“Jehan, complaints are brought me about you every day.”

“My good brother, do you hate me to such a degree as to look savagely upon me because of a few mischievous cuffs and blows distributed in a fair war to a pack of lads and brats?”

“What are you driving at?” said Claude dryly.

“Well, in point of fact, this!” replied Jehan bravely, “I stand in need of money.”

At this audacious declaration, the archdeacon’s visage assumed a thoroughly pedagogical and paternal expression.

“And what are you going to do with it?”

This question caused a flash of hope to gleam before Jehan’s eyes. He resumed his dainty, caressing air.

“Stay, dear Brother Claude, I should not come to you, with any evil motive. ’tis for a good work.”

“What good work?” demanded Claude, somewhat surprised.

“Two of my friends wish to purchase an outfit for the infant of a poor Haudriette widow. It is a charity. It will cost three florins, and I should like to contribute to it.”

“What are names of your two friends?”

“Pierre l’Assommeur and Baptiste Croque-Oison.”

“Hum,” said the archdeacon; “those are names as fit for a good work as a catapult for the chief altar.”

It is certain that Jehan had made a very bad choice of names for his two friends. He realized it too late.

“And then,” pursued the sagacious Claude, “what sort of an infant’s outfit is it that is to cost three florins, and that for the child of a Haudriette? Since when have the Haudriette widows taken to having babes in swaddling-clothes?”

Jehan was silent.

“Begone,” said the archdeacon to Jehan. “I am expecting some one.”

The scholar made one more effort.

“Brother Claude, give me at least one little parisis to buy something to eat.”

“How far have you gone in the Decretals of Gratian?” demanded Dom Claude.

“I have lost my copy books.”

“Where are you in your Latin humanities?”

“My copy of Horace has been stolen. Oh! good Brother Claude,” resumed Jehan, “look at my worn out boots. Is there anything in the world more tragic than these boots, whose soles are hanging out their tongues?”

The archdeacon promptly returned to his original severity.

“I will send you some new boots, but no money.”

“Well,” he exclaimed, “to the devil then! Long live joy! I will live in the tavern, I will fight, I will break pots and I will go and see the wenches.” And thereupon, he hurled his cap at the wall.

The archdeacon looked at him.

“Jehan, you are on a very slippery downward road. Do you know whither you are going?”

“To the wine-shop,” said Jehan.

“The wine-shop leads to the pillory.”

“’Tis as good a lantern as any other, and perchance with that one, Diogenes would have found his man.”

“The pillory leads to the gallows.”

“The gallows is a balance which has a man at one end and the whole earth at the other. ’Tis fine to be the man.”

“The gallows leads to hell.”

“’Tis a big fire.”

“Jehan, Jehan, the end will be bad.”

“The beginning will have been good.”

At that moment, the sound of a footstep was heard on the staircase.

“Silence!” said the archdeacon, “here is Master Jacques. Listen, Jehan,” he added, in a low voice; “never speak of what you shall see or hear here. Hide yourself quickly under the furnace.”

The scholar concealed himself; just then a happy idea occurred to him.

“By the way, Brother Claude, a form for not breathing.”

“Silence! I promise.”

“You must give it to me.”

“Take it, then!” said the archdeacon angrily, flinging his purse at him.

Jehan darted under the furnace again, and the door opened.