by Victor Hugo
“Yes.”
It was plain that she was utterly broken.
“Write, clerk,” said Charmolue; and addressing the torturers: “Release the prisoner, and lead her back to the court-room.”
When the prisoner was “unshod,” the king’s proxy examined her foot, still numb with pain.
“Come!” said he; “there is no great harm done. You screamed in time. You can dance yet, my beauty.”
Then he turned to his companions from the Bishop’s Court—
“So justice is enlightened at last! That’s a comfort, gentlemen! The young lady will bear witness that we have acted with the utmost gentleness.”
CHAPTER III
End of the Crown Piece Changed to a Dry Leaf
When she returned to the audience-chamber, pale and limping, she was greeted with a general buzz of pleasure. On the part of the audience, it was caused by that feeling of satisfied impatience which is felt at the theater, at the end of the final intermission, when the curtain rises and the last act begins. On the part of the judges, it came from a prospect of soon supping. The little goat also bleated with joy. She tried to run to meet her mistress, but she was tied to the bench.
Night had now fallen. The candles, whose number had not been increased, cast so little light that the walls of the court-room could not be seen. Shadows wrapped everything in a sort of mist. The apathetic faces of some of the judges could just be distinguished in the gloom. Opposite them, at the extreme end of the long hall, they could make out a vague white patch against the dark background. It was the prisoner.
She had dragged herself painfully to her place. When Charmolue had magisterially installed himself in his, he sat down, then rose, and said, without too great a show of vanity at his success, “The prisoner has confessed everything.”
“Gipsy girl,” began the president, “have you confessed all your crimes of sorcery, prostitution, and murder committed upon Phœbus de Châteaupers?”
Her heart sank within her, and she sobbed aloud in the darkness.
“Whatever you please,” she replied feebly; “but kill me quickly!”
“Sir Proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court,” said the president, “the court is ready to hear your requisitions.”
Master Charmolue drew forth a tremendous bundle of papers, and began to read, with many gestures, and the exaggerated emphasis common to lawyers, a Latin speech, in which all the evidence produced during the trial was set forth in Ciceronian periphrases, flanked by quotations from Plautus, his favorite comic author. We regret that we cannot present our readers with this remarkable piece of oratory. The speaker delivered it with wonderful effect. Long before he had ended the exordium, the perspiration poured down his face, and his eyes seemed starting from his head.
All at once, in the very middle of a period, he paused, and his glance, usually mild enough and even stupid, became withering.
“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed (but in French, for this was not set down in his manuscript), “Satan plays so large a part in this affair, that yonder he stands, listening to our discussions and making a mock of their majesty. Behold!”
As he spoke, he pointed to the little goat, which, seeing Charmolue gesticulate, sincerely thought that it was but right for her to do the same, and sitting up on her haunches, was imitating to the best of her ability, with her fore-feet and her bearded head, the pathetic pantomime of the king’s proxy. This was, it may be remembered, one of her best tricks. This incident—this final proof-produced a great effect. The goat’s feet were tied together, and the king’s proxy resumed the thread of his eloquence.
His speech was very long, but the peroration was admirable. We give the concluding phrase; the reader may imagine Master Charmolue’s hoarse voice and frantic gestures:—
“Ideo, Domni, coram stryga demonstrata, crimine patente, intentione criminis existente, in nomine sanctæ ecclesiæ Nostrœ-Dominæ Parisiensis, quœ est in saisina habendi omni-modam altam et bassam justitiam in illa hac intemerata Civitatis insula, tenore præsentium declaramus nos requirere, primo, aliguandam pecuniariam indemnitatem; secundo, amendationem honorabilem ante portalium maximum Nostræ-Dominæ, ecclesiœ cathedralis; tertio, sententiam in virtute cujus ista stryga cum sua capella, seu in trivio vulgariter dicto the Grève, seu in insula exeunte in fluvio se cancœ, juxta pointam jardini regalis, executatœ sint!”‘cz
He put on his cap and sat down.
“Eheu!” said the agonized Gringoire; “bassa latinitas!”da
Another man in a black gown, near the prisoner, rose. This was her lawyer. The judges, being hungry, began to murmur.
“Be brief, Sir Lawyer,” said the president.
“Mr. President,” replied the lawyer, “the defendant having confessed her crime, I have but a few words to say to the bench. It is laid down in the Salic law that ‘If a witch have devoured a man, and she be convicted of the crime, she shall pay a fine of eight thousand farthings, which make two hundred pence in gold.’ May it please the court to sentence my client to pay this fine.”
“That law is obsolete,” said the king’s proxy.
“Nego,”db replied the lawyer.
“Put it to the vote!” said a councillor; “the crime is clear, and it is late.”
The question was put to the vote without leaving the hall. The judges nodded assent; they were in haste. Their hooded heads were uncovered one after the other in the darkness, in response to the fatal question put to them in a low tone by the president. The poor prisoner seemed to be looking at them, but her dim eyes saw nothing.
The clerk began to write; then he handed the president a lengthy parchment.
The unhappy girl heard a stir among the people, the pikes clashed, and an icy voice said:—
“Gipsy girl, upon such day as it shall please the lord our king, at the hour of noon, you shall be taken in a tumbrel, in your shift, barefoot, a rope around your neck, to the square before the great door of Notre-Dame, and shall there do proper penance, with a wax candle of the weight of two pounds in your hand; and thence you shall be taken to the Place de Grève, where you shall be hanged and strangled on the city gibbet; and likewise this your goat; and you shall pay to the judges of the Bishop’s Court three golden lions, in atonement for the crimes by you committed and by you confessed, of sorcery, magic, prostitution, and murder, upon the person of Lord Phoebus de Chateaupers! And may God have mercy on your soul!”
“Oh, it is a dream!” she murmured; and she felt rude hands bear her away.
CHAPTER IV
Lasciate Ogni Speranzadc
In the Middle Ages, when a building was finished, there was almost as much of it below as above ground. Unless built upon piles, like Notre-Dame, a palace, a fortress, a church, had always a double foundation. In the case of cathedrals, it was almost like another and subterranean cathedral, low, dark, mysterious, blind and mute, beneath the upper nave, which blazed with light and echoed with the sound of organ and bells day and night; sometimes it was a sepulcher. In palaces and fortresses it was a prison; sometimes, too, a tomb, sometimes a combination of both. These mighty structures, whose mode of formation and slow growth we have explained elsewhere, had not merely foundations, but as it were roots which extended under the earth, branching out into rooms, galleries, staircases, in imitation of the building above. Thus churches, palaces, and fortresses were buried midway in the earth. The cellars of an edifice formed another edifice, into which one descended instead of ascending, and whose subterranean stories were evolved below the pile of upper stories of the monument, like those forests and mountains seen reversed in the mirroring water of a lake beneath the forests and mountains on its shore.
In the Bastille Saint-Antoine, the Palace of Justice at Paris, and the Louvre, these underground structures were prisons. The various stories of these prisons as they sank deeper into the ground became darker and more contracted. They formed so many zones presenting various degrees of horror. Dante could have found no better image of his hell. These tunnel-like dungeons usually ended i
n a deep hole like a tub, such as Dante chose for the abode of Satan, and where society placed those condemned to death. When once any poor wretch was buried there, he bade farewell to light, air, life, all hope; he never left it save for the gallows or the stake. Sometimes he lay there and rotted. Human justice styled this “forgetting.” Between mankind and himself the prisoner felt that a mountain of stones and jailers weighed him down; and the entire prison, the massive fortress, became but a huge complicated lock which shut him off from the living world.
It was in a dungeon-hole of this kind, in one of the oubliettes dug by Saint Louis, the in pacedd of the Tournelle, that Esmeralda was placed when condemned to the gallows, doubtless lest she should try to escape, with the colossal Palace of Justice above her head. Poor fly, which could not have stirred the smallest one of the unhewn stones!
Certainly Providence and mankind were equally unjust. Such a lavish display of misery and torment was needless to crush so frail a creature.
There she lay, lost in the darkness, buried, entombed, immured. Whoever had seen her in that state, after having seen her laugh and dance in the sunshine, must have shivered. Cold as night, cold as death, not a breath of air to flutter her hair, not a human sound in her ear, not a ray of daylight in her eyes, bent double, crushed beneath her chains, crouching beside a jug and a loaf of bread, upon a little straw, in the pool of water formed beneath her by the damp oozing of her cell, motionless, nearly breathless, she was almost beyond all sense of suffering. Phoebus, the sun, high noon, the fresh air, the streets of Paris, her dancing always hailed with applause, the sweet prattle of love with the officer; then the priest, the old hag, the dagger, the blood, the torture, and the gallows,—all these things had hovered before her, now like a gay and golden vision, now like a monstrous nightmare; but they were now naught but a vague and horrible struggle lost in the darkness, or like distant music played above, on the earth, and no longer heard in the depths to which the wretched girl had fallen.
Since she had been there she had neither waked nor slept. In her misery, in her dungeon, she could no more distinguish waking from sleeping, a dream from reality, than she could day from night. All was mingled, broken, vague, floating confusedly before her mind. She felt nothing, knew nothing, thought nothing; at best, she only dreamed. Never did living creature pierce so far into the realm of nothingness.
Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, she had scarcely noted the sound of a trap-door which was twice or thrice opened somewhere above her without even admitting a ray of light, and through which a hand had thrown a crust of black bread. And yet this was her only remaining means of communication with men,—the periodical visit of the jailer.
One thing only still mechanically caught her ear: over her head the dampness filtered through the moldy stones of the roof, and at regular intervals a drop of water fell. She listened stupidly to the noise made by this drop of water as it dripped into the pool beside her.
This drop of water falling into the pool was the only movement still stirring around her, the only clock which marked the time, the only sound of all the noises made upon the surface of the earth which reached her.
To be exact, she did also feel from time to time, in this sink of mire and gloom, something cold crawling hither and thither over her foot or her arm, and she shuddered.
How long had she been there? She did not know. She remembered a death sentence pronounced somewhere, against some one; then she was borne away, and she waked icy cold, in the midst of night and silence. She had dragged herself about on her hands and knees; then iron rings had cut her ankle, and chains had clanked. She discovered that there was a wall all about her, that there was a tiled floor under her, covered with water, and a bundle of straw; but neither lamp nor ventilator. Then she seated herself upon the straw, and occasionally, for a change of position, on the last step of some stone stairs in her cell.
At one time she tried to count the dark moments measured for her by the drop of water; but soon this sad task of a diseased brain ceased of its own accord, and left her in a stupor.
At last, one day, or one night,—for midnight and noon wore the same hue in this tomb,—she heard above her a noise louder than that usually made by the turnkey when he brought her bread and water. She raised her head, and saw a reddish ray coming through the cracks in the sort of trap-door made in the room of the “in pace.”
At the same time the heavy iron creaked, the trap-door grated on its rusty hinges, turned, and she saw a lantern, a hand, and the lower part of the bodies of two men, the door being too low for her to see their heads. The light hurt her so cruelly that she shut her eyes.
When she reopened them, the door was again closed, the lantern was placed on a step of the staircase, a man alone stood before her. A black gown fell to his feet; a cowl of the same color hid his face. Nothing of his person was visible, neither his face nor his hands. He looked like a long black winding-sheet standing bolt upright, under which something seemed to move. She gazed fixedly for some moments at this spectre. Still, neither she nor he spoke. They seemed two statues confronting each other. Two things only seemed to live in the cave,—the wick of the lantern, which crackled from the dampness of the atmosphere, and the drop of water from the ceiling, which interrupted this irregular crackle with its monotonous plash, and made the light of the lantern quiver in concentric rings upon the oily water of the pool.
At last the prisoner broke the silence,—
“Who are you?”
“A priest.”
The word, the accent, the sound of his voice, made her tremble.
The priest added in a hollow tone,—
“Are you prepared?”
“For what?”
“To die.”
“Oh,” said she, “will it be soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
Her head, which she had lifted with joy, again sank upon her breast.
“That is a very long time yet!” she murmured; “why did they not make it today?”
“Then you are very unhappy?” asked the priest, after a pause.
“I am very cold,” replied she.
She took her feet in her hands,—a common gesture with those wretched people who suffer from cold, and which we have already observed in the recluse of the Tour-Roland,—and her teeth chattered.
The priest seemed to cast his eyes about the cell, from beneath his hood.
“No light! no fire! in the water! It is horrible!”
“Yes,” she answered, with the look of surprise which misfortune had imprinted on her face. “Daylight is for every one. Why is it that they give me nothing but night?”
“Do you know,” resumed the priest, after a fresh pause, “why you are here?”
“I think I did know once,” said she, passing her thin fingers over her brow as if to help her memory, “but I don’t know now.”
All at once she began to cry like a little child.
“I want to get out, sir. I am cold, I am frightened, and there are creatures which crawl all over me.”
“Well, follow me.”
So saying, the priest took her by the arm. The unfortunate creature was frozen to the marrow; but still that hand gave her a sensation of cold.
“Oh,” she murmured, “it is the icy hand of death. Who are you?”
The priest threw back his hood; she looked. It was that evil face which had so long haunted her; that demon head which had appeared to her at the house of La Falourdel above the adored head of her Phœbus; that eye which she had last seen sparkle beside a dagger.
This apparition, always so fatal to her, and which had thus urged her on from misfortune to misfortune and even to torture, roused her from her torpor. The veil which had clouded her memory seemed rent in twain. Every detail of her mournful adventure, from the night scene at the house of La Falourdel down to her condemnation at the Tournelle, rushed upon her mind at once, not vague and confused as heretofore, but clear, distinct, vivid, living, terrible. The somber figure before her recalled
those half-effaced memories almost blotted out by excess of suffering, as the heat of the fire brings back in all their freshness invisible letters traced on white paper with sympathetic ink. She felt as if every wound in her heart were torn open and bled together.
“Ha!” she cried, pressing her hands to her eyes with a convulsive shudder, “it is the priest!”
Then her arms fell listlessly at her side, and she sat with downcast head and eyes, mute and trembling.
The priest gazed at her with the eye of a kite which has long hovered high in the heavens above a poor meadow-lark crouching in the wheat, gradually and silently descending in ever lessening circles, and, suddenly swooping upon his prey like a flash of lightning, grasps it panting in his clutch.
She murmured feebly,—
“Do your work! do your work! strike the last blow!” and her head sank between her shoulders in terror, like that of a lamb awaiting the butcher’s axe.
“You look upon me with horror, then?” he asked at length.
She made no answer.
“Do you look on me with horror?” he repeated.
Her lips moved as if she smiled.
“Yes,” said she, “the executioner jests with the prisoner. For months he has pursued me, threatened me, terrified me! But for him, my God, how happy I should have been! It is he who hurled me into this gulf of woe! Oh, heavens! it is he who killed,—it is he who killed him, my Phœbus!”
Here, bursting into sobs and raising her eyes to the priest, she cried,—
“Oh, wretch! who are you? What have I done to you? Do you hate me so much? Alas! what have you against me?”
“I love you!” exclaimed the priest.
Her tears ceased suddenly; she stared vacantly at him. He had fallen upon his knees, and devoured her face with eyes of flame.
“Do you hear? I love you!” he again exclaimed.
“What love!” said the miserable girl shuddering.
He replied,—
“The love of a damned man.”
Both were silent for some moments, oppressed by the intensity of their emotions,—he mad, she stunned.
