by Hugo, Victor
All that, when all is said and done, did not add up to strong evidence of sorcery; but it was still as much smoke as was needed to assume some fire; and the archdeacon had a quite formidable reputation. We must say, however, that the sciences of Egypt, necromancy, magic, even of the whitest and most innocent kind, had no enemy more relentless, no one who denounced them more inexorably to the officiality of Notre-Dame. Whether this was from genuine horror or the play-acting of the thief shouting: ‘Stop thief!’, it did not prevent the archdeacon being regarded by the learned heads in the chapter as a soul who had ventured into the antechamber of hell, lost in the caverns of the Kabbala, groping in the darkness of the occult sciences. The people made no mistake about it either; for anyone with a little sense Quasimodo was the demon, Claude Frollo the sorcerer. It was obvious that the bell-ringer had to serve the archdeacon for a given time, at the end of which he would carry off his soul by way of payment. Thus the archdeacon, despite the excessive austerity of his life, was in bad odour with God-fearing souls; and any devout woman, however inexperienced, could sniff him out as a magician.
And if, as he grew older, abysses had opened in his sciences, they had opened too in his heart. That at least is what there was reason to believe from an examination of his face, where his soul shone only through a dark cloud. Where did he get that broad, bare forehead, that head always bent forward, that chest always heaving with sighs? What secret thoughts brought such a bitter smile to his lips at the same moment as his frowning brows came closer together like two bulls about to fight? Why were his remaining hairs already grey? What was that inner fire which sometimes flashed in his eyes, so much so that they looked like holes pierced in a furnace wall?
These symptoms of some violent moral preoccupation had reached a particularly high degee of intensity by the time of our story. More than once a chorister, finding him alone in the church, had fled in terror before such strangely glaring eyes. More than once, in choir, during the office, the occupant of the neighbouring stall had heard him mingling unintelligible parentheses into the plainchant ad omnem tonum [in every tone]. More than once the washerwoman of the Terrain whose job it was to ‘wash the chapter’ had noticed, not without alarm, the marks left by nails and clenched fingers on the surplice of Monsieur the Archdeacon of Josas.
He became, however, doubly severe and more exemplary than ever. By his calling and by his character he had always kept away from women; he seemed to hate them more than ever. The mere rustle of a silk petticoat brought his hood down over his eyes. On this point he was so jealous of his austerity and reserve that when the Dame de Beaujeu, the King’s daughter, came in December 1481 to visit the cloister of Notre-Dame, he solemnly opposed her admission, reminding the bishop of the statute in the Black Book, dated St Bartholomew’s eve 1334, forbidding access to the cloister to any woman ‘whatsoever, old or young, mistress or chambermaid’. Whereupon the bishop felt constrained to quote him the legate Odo’s ordinance, making an exception for certain great ladies, aliquae magnates mulieres, quae sine scandalo evitari non possunt [some ladies of high rank, who cannot be shunned without scandal]. But the archdeacon still protested, objecting that the legate’s ordinance, which went back to 1207, was a hundred and twenty-seven years earlier than the Black Book, and was consequently, as a matter of fact, abrogated by it. And he refused to appear before the princess.
It was further remarked that for some little time his horror of gypsy women and Zingari seemed to have intensified. He had solicited an edict from the bishop expressly forbidding gypsy women to dance and play their tambourines in the square before the cathedral, and at the same time had been going through the official’s musty archives to collect cases of sorcerers and sorceresses condemned to the flames or the rope for complicity in witchcraft with he-goats, sows, or she-goats.
VI
UNPOPULARITY
THE archdeacon and the bell-ringer, as we have already said, were not greatly liked by the people, high or low, who lived near the cathedral. When Claude and Quasimodo went out together, which frequently occurred, and were seen in each other’s company, the servant behind his master, passing through the cool, narrow, dark streets adjoining Notre-Dame, more than one spiteful remark, more than one ironic snatch of song, more than one rude gibe pestered them as they went by, unless, as rarely happened, Claude Frollo walked with head erect, showing his severe and almost august forehead to silence the mockers.
In their quarter both were like ‘the poets’ of whom Régnier speaks:
All kinds of people follow behind poets
As behind owls do songbirds in full cry.*
Now it was a stealthy brat risking skin and bones for the ineffable delight of sticking a pin into Quasimodo’s hump. Now a pretty, buxom girl, bolder than she should have been, brushing against the priest’s black robe and singing the sardonic refrain: ‘Away, away, the devil’s been caught.’ Sometimes a group of squalid old women, spread out squatting over the steps of some shady porch, loudly grumbling as the archdeacon and bell-ringer went by, and mumbling their malice with some such encouraging welcome as: ‘Hm! there goes one whose soul is just like the other’s body!’ Or it might be a band of students and soldiers playing hopscotch rising in a body and greeting them classically with some Latin jeer: ‘Eia! eia! Claudius cum claudo! [Come on! Claude with his limping companion!]*
But most often the insults went unnoticed by priest and bell-ringer. Quasimodo was too deaf and Claude too rapt in thought to take in all these gracious comments.
BOOK FIVE
I
ABBAS BEATI MARTINI
[THE ABBOT OF SAINT-MARTIN]
DOM CLAUDE’S fame had spread far and wide. At about the same time that he refused to see Madame de Beaujeu it earned him a visit which he long remembered.
It was evening. He had just retired after the office to his canonical cell in the cloister of Notre-Dame. There was nothing strange or mysterious about this cell, apart perhaps from a few glass phials abandoned in a corner, filled with a somewhat dubious powder closely resembling the powder of projection.* Here and there, to be sure, were some inscriptions on the walls, but they were simply scientific or pious maxims taken from reliable authors. The archdeacon had just sat down by the light from a triple brass candleholder in front of a huge chest laden with manuscripts. His elbow rested on an open volume of the book of Honorius of Autun De praedestinatione et libero arbitrio [On Predestination and Free Will], and he was sunk in reflection as he turned the pages of a printed folio volume he had just brought in, the only product of the printing-press that his cell contained. In the midst of his reverie there was a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ cried the scholar in a tone as gracious as that of a hungry mastiff disturbed at its bone. A voice answered from outside: ‘Your friend, Jacques Coictier.’ He went to open the door.
It was indeed the King’s doctor, a man of about 50, whose hard features were tempered only by his crafty look. Another man accompanied him. Both wore long, slate-grey gowns, trimmed with grey squirrel fur, belted and fastened, with caps of the same material and colour. Their hands were hidden in their sleeves, their feet beneath their gowns, their eyes beneath their caps.
‘God help me, gentlemen!’ said the archdeacon as he let them in, ‘I was not expecting such distinguished visitors at this late hour.’ And while he spoke these courteous words he was uneasily scrutinizing the doctor and then his companion.
‘It is never too late to pay a call on so notable a scholar as Dom Claude Frollo de Tirechappe,’ replied Doctor Coictier, with a Franche-Comté accent which dragged out every sentence as majestically as a robe with a train.
The doctor and the archdeacon then began one of those introductory exchanges of compliments which at that time customarily preceded any conversation between men of learning and did not prevent them from cordially detesting each other. Besides, it is still the same today, the mouth of any scholar who pays compliments to another is a jar of honeyed venom.
Claude Frollo’s con
gratulations to Jacques Coictier mainly concerned the numerous temporal advantages which the worthy doctor had been able to derive, in the course of his much-envied career, from each of the King’s illnesses by practising a better and more reliable alchemy than the search for the philosopher’s stone.
‘Truly! Monsieur le docteur Coictier, I was delighted to learn that your nephew, my reverend lord Pierre Versé, had been appointed to a bishopric. He is Bishop of Amiens, is he not?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Archdeacon; by God’s gracious mercy.’
‘You know, you looked very splendid on Christmas Day at the head of your company from the Exchequer, Monsieur le Président?’
‘Vice-President, Dom Claude. Alas! that’s all.’
‘How is that superb house of yours in the rue Saint-André-des-Arcs coming along? It is another Louvre. I just love the apricot tree carved over the door with its amusing play on words: Á L’ABRI-COTIER.’*
‘Alas, Maître Claude, all that stone-masonry is costing me dear. As the house goes up I am being ruined.’
‘Oh! don’t you have your income from the gaol and palace bailiwicks, and the rent from all the houses, stalls, huts, and booths within the walls? That’s a fine milch-cow for you.’
‘My lordship of Poissy hasn’t brought in anything this year.’
‘But your toll dues at Triel, Saint-James, and Saint-Germain-en-Laye always give a good yield.’
‘A hundred and twenty livres, and not even parisis.’*
‘You have your post as King’s counsellor. That’s a fixed fee.’
‘Yes, Claude, dear colleague, but that damned manor at Poligny that they talk about isn’t worth 60 gold écus to me, taking one year with another.’
In the compliments Dom Claude paid to Jacques Coictier there was a sardonic, sour note of subdued derision, the sad, cruel smile of an unhappy but superior person amusing himself for a moment by playing with the solid prosperity of a vulgar man. The other did not notice.
‘Upon my soul,’ said Dom Claude at last, as he grasped the other man’s hand, ‘I am glad to see you looking so well.’
‘Thank you, Maître Claude.’
‘That reminds me,’ exclaimed Dom Claude, ‘how is your royal patient?’
‘He doesn’t pay his physician enough,’ the doctor answered, with a sidelong glance at his companion.
‘Do you think so, Compère Coictier?’ said the companion.
These words, uttered in a tone of reproachful surprise, drew the attention of the archdeacon once more to this unknown stranger, from whom, truth to tell, it had not been fully diverted for a moment since he had crossed the cell’s threshold. It was only because he had so many reasons for keeping on good terms with Doctor Coictier, Louis XI’s all-powerful physician, that he had received him thus accompanied. So there was nothing really cordial in his expression when Jacques Coictier said: ‘By the way, Dom Claude, I bring you a colleague who wanted to meet you on account of your reputation.’
‘Monsieur is interested in science?’ asked the archdeacon, fixing a penetrating stare on Coictier’s companion. Beneath the stranger’s brows he met a gaze no less piercing and mistrustful than his own.
He was, as far as the dim lamplight enabled one to judge, an elderly man of some 60 years, of average height, looking rather ill and bent. His profile, although its lines were in no way noble, had a certain power and severity, his very deep-set eyes sparkled like a light in the depths of a cave, and beneath the cap pulled low over his face one could sense a genius’s brow turning over far-reaching plans.
He took it on himself to reply to the archdeacon’s question in person. ‘Reverend master,’ he said gravely, ‘your fame has reached even me, and I wanted to consult you. I am only a poor country gentleman who takes off his shoes before entering the home of scholars. But I must introduce myself. My name is Compère* Tourangeau.’
‘An odd name for a gentleman!’ thought the archdeacon. However, he felt something strong and serious confonting him. The instinct of his own lofty intelligence made him suspect another no less lofty beneath Compère Tourangeau’s fur-trimmed cap; and as he looked at this grave figure, the ironic grin which Jacques Coictier’s presence had brought to his sombre countenance disappeared like twilight on the night horizon. He had sat down again, in gloomy silence, in his big armchair, his elbow back in its usual position on the table, his forehead against his hand. After some moments’ thought, he invited his two visitors with a sign to be seated, and addressed Compère Tourangeau.
‘You have come to consult me, Maître, concerning which science?’
‘Reverend sir,’ replied Compère Tourangeau, ‘I am a sick man, very sick. You are said to be a great Aesculapius* and I have come to ask you for some medical advice.’
‘Medicine!’ said the archdeacon, with a nod of his head. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts for a moment, then went on: ‘Compère Tourangeau, since that is your name, turn your head. You will find my answer written on the wall.’
Compère Tourangeau obeyed, and read this inscription carved on the wall above his head: ‘Medicine is the daughter of dreams—JAMBLICHUS.’*
Meanwhile Jacques Coictier had heard his companion’s question with a resentment which Dom Claude’s reply only increased. He bent over and whispered in Compère Tourangeau’s ear in a voice too low to be heard by the archdeacon: ‘I warned you that he was mad. You would come and see him!’
‘But he may very well be right, this madman, doctor Jacques!’ the compère answered in the same low tones, with a bitter smile.
‘As you please!’ Coictier retorted drily. Then, addressing the archdeacon: ‘You have a nimble touch, Dom Claude, and Hippocrates is hardly more of a problem to you than a nut to a monkey. Medicine a dream! I doubt whether the pharmacopolists and master apothecaries could keep themselves from stoning you if they were here. So you deny the influence of philtres on the blood, of unguents on the flesh! You deny that eternal pharmacy of flowers and metals called the world, created expressly for the eternal patient, called man!’
‘I deny,’ Dom Claude said coldly, ‘neither the pharmacy nor the patient. I deny the physician.’
‘So it’s not true,’ Coictier went on with some heat, ‘that gout is internal herpes, that a gunshot wound can be cured by an application of roast mouse, that a proper infusion of young blood can restore youth to old veins; it’s not true that two and two make four, and that emprosthotonos comes after opisthotonos?’*
The archdeacon replied unmoved: ‘There are certain things which I think about in a certain way.’
Coictier went red with anger.
‘Now, now, my good Coictier, let’s keep our tempers,’ said Compère Tourangeau, ‘Monsieur the Archdeacon is our friend.’
Coictier calmed down, muttering under his breath: ‘After all, he’s mad.’
‘Pasquedieu, Maître Claude,’ went on Compère Tourangeau after a moment’s silence, ‘you are making me feel very embarrassed. I wanted to consult you on two points, one concerning my health, the other my stars.’
‘Monsieur,’ replied the archdeacon, ‘if that is what is in your mind, you would have done better to have saved your breath by not climbing up my stairs. I do not believe in medicine. I do not believe in astrology.’
‘Really!’ said the compère in surprise.
Coictier gave a forced laugh.
‘You can see now that he’s mad,’ he said in a very low voice to Compère Tourangeau. ‘He doesn’t believe in astrology.’
‘How could anyone imagine,’ continued Dom Claude, ‘that every beam from a star is a thread attached to a man’s head?’
‘What do you believe in then?’ exclaimed Compère Tourangeau.
The archdeacon stayed undecided for a moment; then gave a bleak smile which seemed to belie his answer: ‘Credo in Deum.’
‘Dominum nostrum,’* added Compère Tourangeau, making the sign of the cross.
‘Amen,’ said Coictier.
‘Reverend master,’ th
e compère went on, ‘my soul rejoices to see such sound religion in you. But great scholar that you are, are you so learned that you no longer believe in science?’
‘No,’ said the archdeacon, seizing Compère Tourangeau by the arm, a flash of enthusiasm rekindling in his dull eyes, ‘no, I do not deny science. I have not crawled on my belly for so long with my nails in the earth through the cavern’s countless ramifications without glimpsing far ahead, at the end of the dark tunnel, a light, a flame, something, no doubt a reflection from the dazzling central laboratory where wise and patient men have caught God unawares.’
‘Then what do you consider true and certain?’ Tourangeau broke in.
‘Alchemy.’
Coictier exclaimed: ‘By heaven, Dom Claude, alchemy no doubt has its point, but why blaspheme against medicine and astrology?’
‘A nothing, your science of man! A nothing, your science of the heavens!’ said the archdeacon imperiously.
‘That’s treating Epidaurus and Chaldea* very summarily,’ replied the doctor with a sneer.
‘Listen, Messire Jacques, I’m saying this in good faith. I am not the King’s doctor, and His Majesty has not given me the Daedalus garden so that I can observe the constellations from it—don’t lose your temper, listen to me—what truth have you drawn, I won’t say from medicine, which is much too foolish, but from astrology? Tell me the virtues of the vertical boustrophedon, the discoveries made from the numbers ziruph and zephirod.’*
‘Do you deny,’ said Coictier, ‘the sympathetic power of the Clavicula* and the fact that the Kabbala is derived from it?’
