QUASIMODO: My master.
(He falls to his knees. Claude Frollo tears his cape and mitre from him.)
CROWD: Down with the Priest! Death to him! He’s insulting our Pope! The Pope of Fools!
(Hoots, threats and fists raised against Claude Frollo.)
QUASIMODO (with a deep roar): Don’t dare touch my master!
CLAUDE FROLLO (calm, to Quasimodo): Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.
(He leaves to the left. Quasimodo protects his retreat, throwing his fists in the air.)
JEHAN FROLLO: Show some respect for the Archdeacon, my brothers! And pity him too, for I suspect he’s been fasting.
GRINGOIRE: Just like me, then! (noticing Esmeralda moving away) I’m going to follow her. If she’s a goddess, she’ll lead me to Heaven; if she’s a mortal, she’ll lead me–somewhere to eat.
(He follows Esmeralda.)
JEHAN FROLLO: My friends, we’ve lost our venerable Pope. I offer you another in replacement, less ugly but infinitely meaner, which should make up for it. And that successor is–me!
ALL: Hurrah! Long Live Pope Jehan Frollo!
(They lift him on the platform and a procession begins to form. Night is falling. The candle before the Virgin Mary is lit. The stage empties, except for Quasimodo.)
QUASIMODO (alone): What bad luck my master showed up. He got angry. He tore my beautiful gold clothes. Why? There were so fine. I was happy and proud. Never in my life have I enjoyed such pleasure. Always around me, I see, I feel only scorn, hate, outrage and disgust. Today, they applauded me, they admired me, they bore me in triumph like a King. But it must’ve been bad since the master was angry. It’s a shame!
(Claude Frollo returns.)
CLAUDE FROLLO: You’re still here? Good! (to himself) The girl must eventually return and cross over that bridge to get back home to her kind at the Court of Miracles. This place is dark and empty. Come now, I must deal with this wretched passion that’s devouring me. I’ve struggled mightily, but fate is stronger yet. Let me have this woman and the Devil can take me. Hell with her will be like Heaven to me. (he taps Quasimodo on the shoulder.) Follow me into the light. (they walk to the shrine to the Virgin Mary) Deaf to almost any sounds, you know how to read my lips, so look at me and listen.
QUASIMODO: I’m looking and I’m listening.
CLAUDE FROLLO: You remember to whom you owe your wretched life?
QUASIMODO: A man who lives alone with only his thoughts never forgets. It was 20 years ago today that I was left inside the wood basket for abandoned children hanging from the door of Notre-Dame. A poor, little malformed creature who frightened and horrified all who saw him. They said, “It’s a monster. It’s a demon. Best throw him in the river. Best throw him in a fire.” But a young priest came, extended his hand and said: “I shall adopt this child.” And indeed, he sheltered him, fed him and raised him. It was between the legs of that young priest that the boy sought refuge when dogs and children howled after him. It’s from that young priest he learned to speak, to read and to write. And when he became a man, the priest entrusted him with the bells of Notre-Dame, those angelic voices which come to him again and again when his ears are covered, these friends which cradle him with their heavenly music. The young priest was you, master. The monster was me. You see, I have not forgotten.
CLAUDE FROLLO: Do you also remember how to express gratitude?
QUASIMODO: The whole world hates me, and I hate the whole world. But you, I love. Whatever you desire, I wish it. Whatever you wish, I will do. To my deformed members, God gave prodigious strength to allow me to serve you better. I am your servant, your slave, your dog, your creature. Do you call this gratitude? I feel it’s merely my duty.
CLAUDE FROLLO: So you will do what I am going to order you to do, without question?
QUASIMODO: I don’t know if I will succeed, but I’ll die trying–or have it done.
CLAUDE FROLLO: Very well. Someone’s going to pass this way soon. Man or woman, he must be carried off as I order.
QUASIMODO: A man at the end of my fists may struggle in vain over my head. A woman, I can carry under my arms, folded like a scarf.
CLAUDE FROLLO: Fine! I don’t need to explain why I give you this order.
QUASIMODO: No, master. You are wisdom, you are science, you are virtue. You cannot wish something unjust; you cannot order that which is not good.
CLAUDE FROLLO: Excellent. (cupping his ear) That little bell is that of the goat which accompanies her. Let’s hide behind these pillars and wait for my signal.
(They conceal themselves. Esmeralda enters with her goat. Gringoire follows her, at a distance.)
ESMERALDA: Come, Djali, come on. You were begging to go home.
GRINGOIRE (tired): She keeps going on and on. But she’s got to live somewhere. Gypsies have a good heart. Who knows?
ESMERALDA (to Djali): Is it that thin shadow behind us that’s frightening you?
GRINGOIRE: Ah! She’s finally stopping.
ESMERALDA (to Gringoire): Who are you? You really ought to stop frightening Djali by following us.
GRINGOIRE: I only frighten the goat?
ESMERALDA: Look, what do you want? You’ve been following us since the Croix-Rouge.
GRINGOIRE: Yes.
ESMERALDA: Are you still going to follow me for a while?
GRINGOIRE (hand on his stomach): I feel that I cannot do otherwise. I’m so hungry!
ESMERALDA (pointing to the right): You would follow me even over there?
GRINGOIRE: What’s over there?
ESMERALDA: The Court of Miracles, the City of Gypsies, the realm of cutthtroats and burglars where I live; a sewer of vice, a kingdom of sin whose subject I am.
GRINGOIRE: I would willingly become its subject, too.
ESMERALDA: But you’re not–do you speak Argot?
GRINGOIRE: I confess I don’t.
ESMERALDA: And not being an Argotier yourself, you still want to enter their kingdom?
GRINGOIRE: With you at my side, yes!
ESMERALDA: Oh, you can enter. Nothing could be simpler.
GRINGOIRE: Ah? Thanks.
ESMERALDA: Only, I warn you, you won’t be able to leave.
GRINGOIRE: The Devil!
CLAUDE FROLLO (to Quasimodo): Go!
(Quasimodo rushes Esmeralda.)
GRINGOIRE: Help! Help!
(Quasimodo gives him a slap of his backhand that sends the writer reeling four feet away on the pavement.)
GRINGOIRE: Ouch! I see stars... Candles... Thirty-six candles!
(He remains stretched out on the pavement, unconscious. Meanwhile, Quasimodo seizes Esmeralda who struggles bravely.)
ESMERALDA: Murder! Murder!
CLAUDE FROLLO: Come!
(Suddenly, Pheoebus enters on horseback, followed by archers bearing torches.)
PHOEBUS: Halt right there, wretches, and release that woman!
(Quasimodo releases Esmeralda and tries to flee, but is surrounded by the archers who seize him and bind him. Esmeralda seeks refuge by the horse of Phoebus. Claude Frollo flees into the night.)
PHOEBUS: My beautiful child. You see what happens when one runs around all alone in the streets at night.
ESMERALDA (recognizing him): Captain Phoebus!
PHOEBUS (dismounting): Esmeralda.
ESMERALDA (joyfully): You know my name?
PHOEBUS: Indeed. After all, you know mine!
ESMERALDA: Oh, I’m but a poor Gypsy girl. For me to know the name of a brave and handsome young Captain is nothing. But you?
PHOEBUS: Well, if today’s the first time I’ve spoken to you, I confess it’s not the first time I’ve seen you. I admire you greatly. That is to say, I–
ESMERALDA (stopping him): Don’t say it so soon! I can’t believe it! And it would be too sad, for I’m so happy.
PHOEBUS: You are happy?
ESMERALDA: Yes! For this is our first meeting and you just saved me! I owe you–who knows?–perhaps more than life.
&n
bsp; PHOEBUS: So what will you give me instead?
ESMERALDA: Oh Captain!
PHOEBUS: Perhaps I’m entitled to a small advance, eh? A kiss... (trying to kiss her)
ESMERALDA (recoiling): Oh, no! Mercy!
PHOEBUS (persisting): A single kiss. That’s nothing.
ESMERALDA (still recoiling): Nothing for you, alas, but everything for me.
PHOEBUS: Heavens! Look into my eyes and see if I don’t love you. Look!
ESMERALDA: I don’t even want to look into myself.
PHOEBUS: Stop, wicked girl! Love is meant to enter your heart.
ESMERALDA: Love tonight, but misfortune tomorrow.
(She slips out of his arms and flees. Phoebus pursues her for a few feet, then returns.)
PHOEBUS: She’s escaped! Truly, a fine adventure! (looking at Quasimodo) The dove has flown away, only the crow remains. That one will pay double.
(He gets back on his horse and rides away, with the archers leading off Quasimodo.)
GRINGOIRE (regaining his senses): Where am I? Where’s the dancing girl? Gone! I’m sore and numb. Hey! What are those shadows coming over there?
(Three beggars, one blind, one one-eyed, one crippled emerge from several hiding places.)
FIRST BEGGAR (low): The guards have gone.
SECOND BEGGAR: Yes, but the curfew bell hasn’t rung yet.
GRINGOIRE: Where’s that breeze coming from? Ah, I’m freezing. No wonder–I was lying in the gutter! I noticed on the Rue de la Savatière, a stepping stone to put on one’s slippers. For want of better, it will serve me as a pillow.
(The three beggars notice him and approach him.)
FIRST BEGGAR: La buona mancia, signor! La buona manria.
GRINGOIRE (looking at him): May the Devil take you, and me with you if I know what you’re saying.
(He starts to leave but only bumps into the Second Beggar.)
SECOND BEGGAR: Señor Caballero, para comprar un pedaso de pan.
GRINGOIRE: It’s a barbaric tongue that he speaks, too. And he’s luckier than I because he understands it. (looking at him) That’s not a man, that’s a gallows pole.
(As he escapes, he bumps into the Third Beggar.)
THIRD BEGGAR: Facitote caritatem?
GRINGOIRE: Now, there’s one who speaks a Christian language! My friend, I sold my last shirt. Or, since you speak the language of Cicero, Vendidi meam ultimam chemisam! And in case you don’t understand, look! (turns out his pockets to show they’re empty) Is that clear enough? Now, goodnight!
(He wants to pass. Suddenly, the curfew sounds.)
THE THREE BEGGARS: The curfew!
(They all rush Gringoire.)
GRINGOIRE: What’s this? The cripple’s running after me! The blind man bars my passage. The one-armed man puts two hands on my collar! What do you want from me? Where are you taking me?
THE THREE BEGGARS (pulling him): To the Court of Miracles.
CURTAIN
Scene III
The Court of Miracles
A vast, irregular-shaped square, enclosed by old houses with worm-eaten facades. Some fires around which make for a grim atmosphere. Broken tables stand here and there. To the left, there is a big tankard; to the right, a wooden gibbet.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU (entering furious): Hell and damnation! Is that all you’ve stolen?
BELLEVIGNE: Yes, Sire, King of Thieves.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: It would be better to beg! And the sick, my trained pretender–what did you get in the way of alms? Come forward, Chanteprune.
CHANTEPRUNE: Here’s the total, Sire, reviewed and certified by the Duke of Egypt and the Emperor of Gallilee. Seventen sous.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: What misery!
BELLEVIGNE: The curfew just sounded. All the late comers have now returned.
VOICE (outside): To the King! Let’s take him to the King!
(The blind beggar, the cripple and the one-eye man bring in Gringoire.)
BLIND MAN: Majesty, here’s a scamp who tried to enter the Kingdom of Argot without being an Argotier. He was in the neighborhood after curfew.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Scoundrel. What do you have to say in your defense?
GRINGOIRE: Majesty, Sire... How am I to address you?
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Sire, His Majesty, or comrade, call me what you wish, but be quick about it.
(He scrambles onto the cask and sits on a stool.)
GRINGOIRE: I am the one who, this morning–
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: By the Devil’s claws! Your name, wise guy, and nothing else. You’re before three powerful sovereigns. Myself, Clopin Trouillefou, King of Thieves, successor of the grand Coesre in the Kingdom of Argot, Mathias Hunyadi Spicali, Duke of Egypt, and of Bohemia, that old man that you see there with a rag around his head, and Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of Galilee, that fat guy there who’s not listening to us and is caressing a trollop. We three are your judges. You have violated the privileges of our Court. You must be punished unless you are a prig, a cadger or a stroller, that is to say in the argot of honest men, a thief, a beggar or a vagabond. Justify yourself. Are you something like that?
GRINGOIRE: Alas, I have not the honor... I am an author.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: That suffices. You’re going to be hanged. It’s very simple. The punishments you honest bourgeois use against us, we use on you. So it’s your fault if it is bad. It’s necessary, from time to time, to see the grimace of an honest man in a hangman’s noose. That makes the whole thing honorable. (laughter among the crowd) Come on, friend, share your rags merrily with these young fellows before you swing.
GRINGOIRE: Sire, Emperors and Kings, you can’t be thinking of such a thing! I am the poet who put on the Morality Play this morning at the Grand Hall!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Ah! I was there, and if it was your work, master poet–
GRINGOIRE (aside): I am saved!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: –Since you bored us this morning, we have double the reason to hang you tonight.
GRINGOIRE: But–
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Look, let yourself be hanged and no more dilly-dallying.
GRINGOIRE: Pardon me. It’s worth the trouble.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: No, it isn’t! I don’t see why you care about being hanged. It happens all the time. Yes, I can see how it would seem appalling to you, but that’s only because you bourgeois aren’t accustomed to it. So you make a big thing of it.
GRINGOIRE: Not at all! Not at all!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: After all, it’s not like we wish you any harm. Still, I’ll tell you what: there may be a way to get yourself out of the predicament–for the moment. Would you like to become one of us?
GRINGOIRE: Would I like to? Most assuredly!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: You agree to become a member of the Court of Miracles?
GRINGOIRE: A member of the Court. Precisely.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: A member of the free men?
GRINGOIRE: Of the free men!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: A subject of the realm of Argot?
GRINGOIRE: Of the realm of Argot!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: A vagabond?
GRINGOIRE: A vagabond!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Mind you, you won’t be hanged any the less for all that! (laughter)
GRINGOIRE: The Devil!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Only, you will be hanged somewhat later, with more ceremony, at the expense of the good city of Paris and by honest men. It’s a consolation.
GRINGOIRE: So be it! I want to be a vagabond, a thief and a bum! Whatever you wish.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: It’s not a matter of will. Good will doesn’t put an extra onion in the soup. To be received in the Kingdom of Argot, you must prove you are good at something, and for that you must search the dummy.
GRINGOIRE: I will search the dummy as much as you like.
(At a sign from Clopin, two men bring a dummy hung with little bells and big bells, which they hang from the scaffold.)
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU (pointing to a stool): Climb up th
ere.
GRINGOIRE (after having tried): The Devil! I’m going to break my neck. Your stool limps like bad verse. There’s no way for a poet to cling to it.
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Will you get up there!
(Gringoire manages to get up on the stool.)
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Now place your right foot over your left leg and stand on tiptoe.
GRINGOIRE (trying and staggering at each attempt, in the midst of laugher): Do you absolutely insist that I break a leg, Sire?
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Listen, friend you talk too much. Here’s what you have to do in short. You’re going to stand on tiptoe as I told you, in such a way as to be able to reach the pocket of that dummy. You will search it, you’ll pull out a purse that’s there, and if you do all this without causing any bells to ring, that’s fine, you will be one of us.
GRINGOIRE: But if I make the bells ring?
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: You will take the place of the dummy. Come on, hurry up!
GRINGOIRE (extending his hand, then stopping): And if a little wind comes up?
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: You will be hanged too.
GRINGOIRE: Oh, to think my life depends on the least of these bells. Oh bells, please don’t ring. Clappers, please don’t clap. Don’t ring, don’t tinkle, little bells...
(He stands on tiptoe, touches the dummy, extending his arm; then, he loses his balance and automatically grabs the dummy. The bells ring all together. Hoots and laughter. Gringoire falls on his face.)
GRINGOIRE: I am dead!
CLOPIN TROUILLEFOU: Pick the clown up and hang him for me right away.
Frankenstein vs The Hunchback of Notre-Dame Page 8
