by Victor Hugo
With this idea in mind and in his eyes, he approached the young girl in so military and lover-like a fashion that she shrank away from him.
"What do you want?" she said.
"Can you ask me, adorable Esmeralda?" replied Gringoire in such impassioned tones that he himself was astounded at his own accents.
The gipsy girl stared at him. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, come now!" added Gringoire, becoming more and more excited, and thinking that after all he was only dealing with the ready-made virtue of the Court of Miracles; "am I not yours, sweet friend? Are you not mine?"
And, quite innocently, he clasped her by the waist.
The girl's bodice slipped through his hands like a snake's skin. She leaped from one end of the little cell to the other, stooped, and rose with a tiny dagger in her hand, before Gringoire had time to see whence this dagger came,--proud, angry, with swelling lips, dilated nostrils, cheeks red as crab-apples, and eyes flashing lightning. At the same time the white goat placed itself before her, and presented a battle-front to Gringoire, bristling with two pretty, gilded, and very sharp horns. All this took place in the twinkling of an eye.
The damsel had turned wasp, and asked nothing better than to sting.
Our philosopher stood abashed, glancing alternately at the girl and the goat in utter confusion. "Holy Virgin!" he exclaimed at last, when surprise allowed him to speak, "here's a determined pair!"
The gipsy girl broke the silence in her turn. "You must be a very bold rascal!"
"Forgive me, mademoiselle," said Gringoire with a smile. "But why did you marry me, then?"
"Was I to let them hang you?"
"So," replied the poet, somewhat disappointed in his amorous hopes, "you had no other idea in wedding me than to save me from the gibbet?"
"And what other idea should I have had?"
Gringoire bit his lips. "Well," said he, "I am not quite such a conquering hero as I supposed. But then, what was the use of breaking that poor pitcher?"
But Esmeralda's dagger and the goat's horns still remained on the defensive.
"Mademoiselle Esmeralda," said the poet, "let us come to terms. I am not clerk of the Chatelet, and I shall not pick a quarrel with you for carrying concealed weapons in Paris, in the face of the provost's orders and prohibition. Yet you must know that Noel Le scrivain was sentenced to pay ten Paris pence only a week ago for wearing a broadsword. Now, that is none of my business, and I will come to the point. I swear to you, by all my hopes of paradise, that I will not come near you without your sovereign leave and permission; but give me some supper."
To tell the truth, Gringoire, like Despreaux, was "very little of a Don Juan." He was not one of the chivalric, musketeering kind who take girls by storm. In the matter of love, as in all other matters, he was always for temporizing and compromising; and a good supper, in friendly society, struck him, especially when he was hungry, as an excellent interlude between the prologue and the issue of an intrigue.
The gipsy made no answer. She gave her usual scornful little pout, cocked her head like a bird, then burst out laughing, and the dainty dagger disappeared as it came, Gringoire being still unable to discover where the bee hid her sting.
A moment later, a rye loaf, a slice of bacon, a few withered apples, and a jug of beer were on the table. Gringoire began to eat greedily. Judging by the fierce clatter of his iron fork against his earthen-plate, all his love had turned to hunger.
The young girl seated near him looked on in silence, evidently absorbed in other thoughts, at which she occasionally smiled, while her gentle hand caressed the intelligent head of the goat as it rested idly against her knee.
A yellow wax candle lit up this scene of voracity and reverie.
However, the first cravings of hunger appeased, Gringoire felt somewhat ashamed to find that there was but one apple left. "You don't eat, Mademoiselle Esmeralda?"
She answered by a shake of the head, and her pensive gaze was fixed on the arched roof of the cell.
"What the devil is she thinking about?" thought Gringoire; and, looking to see what she was looking at: "It can't be the wry face of that stone dwarf carved upon yonder keystone which so absorbs her attention. What the devil! I'm sure I can stand the comparison!"
He raised his voice: "Mademoiselle!"
She did not seem to hear him.
He spoke still louder: "Mademoiselle Esmeralda!"
Labor lost. The girl's mind was elsewhere, and Gringoire's voice had no power to call it back. Luckily the goat interfered, by softly pulling her mistress by the sleeve.
"What do you want, Djali?" said the gipsy, hastily, as if roused suddenly.
"The creature is hungry," said Gringoire, delighted to open the conversation.
Esmeralda began to crumple some bread, which Djali nibbled daintily from the hollow of her hand.
However, Gringoire gave her no time to resume her reverie. He risked a delicate question:--
"Then you don't want me for your husband?"
The young girl looked steadily at him, and replied, "No."
"For your lover?" continued Gringoire.
She pouted, and answered, "No."
"For your friend?" went on Gringoire.
She looked at him fixedly once more, and after an instant's reflection, said, "Perhaps."
This "perhaps," so dear to philosophers, emboldened Gringoire.
"Do you know what friendship is?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the gipsy; "it is to be brother and sister; two souls which meet without mingling, two fingers of one hand."
"And love?" continued Gringoire.
"Oh, love!" said she, and her voice trembled and her eye brightened. "That is to be two and yet but one. A man and a woman blended into an angel. It is heaven itself."7
The street dancer assumed a beauty, as she spoke, which struck Gringoire strangely, and seemed to him in perfect harmony with the almost Oriental exaltation of her words. Her pure rosy lips half smiled; her serene and innocent brow was clouded for the moment by her thought, as when a mirror is dimmed by a breath; and from her long, dark, drooping lashes flashed an ineffable light, which lent her profile that ideal sweetness which Raphael has since found at the mystic meeting-point of the virgin, the mother, and the saint.
Nevertheless, Gringoire kept on,--
"What must one be to please you, then?"
"He must be a man."
"And I," said he,--"what am I?"
"A man with a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurs on his heels."
"Good!" said Gringoire; "dress makes the man. Do you love any one?"
"As a lover?"
"As a lover."
She looked pensive for a moment; then she said with a peculiar expression, "I shall know soon."
"Why not tonight?" said the poet, tenderly; "why not me?"
She cast a serious glance at him.
"I can only love a man who can protect me."
Gringoire flushed, and was silent. It was evident that the young girl alluded to the slight assistance which he had afforded her in the critical situation in which she had found herself a couple of hours previous. This memory, blotted out by the other adventures of the evening, returned to him. He struck his brow.
"By-the-bye, mademoiselle, I ought to have begun there. Forgive me my foolish distractions. How did you manage to escape from Quasimodo's claws?"
This question made the gipsy shudder.
"Oh, the horrid hunchback!" she cried, hiding her face in her hands.
And she shivered as if icy cold.
"Horrid, indeed," said Gringoire, not dropping the subject; "but how did you contrive to escape him?"
Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and was silent.
"Do you know why he pursued you?" continued Gringoire, trying to get an answer by a roundabout way.
"I don't know," said the girl. And she added quickly, "But you followed me too; why did you follow me?"
"In good faith," repl
ied Gringoire, "I have forgotten."
There was a pause. Gringoire was scratching the table with his knife. The girl smiled, and seemed to be gazing at something through the wall. All at once she began to sing in a voice which was scarcely articulate, She broke off abruptly, and began to fondle Djali.
"Quando las pintadas aves
Mudas estan, y la tierra--"aq
"That's a pretty creature of yours," said Gringoire.
"It is my sister," she replied.
"Why do they call you 'Esmeralda?' " the poet ventured to ask.
"I've no idea."
"But why do they?"
She drew from her bosom a small oblong bag fastened to her neck by a string of red seeds. This bag gave forth a strong smell of camphor; it was made of green silk, and had in the center a large bit of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.
"Perhaps it is on account of that," said she.
Gringoire tried to take the bag. She drew back.
"Don't touch it! It's an amulet. You will injure the charm, or the charm you."
The poet's curiosity was more and more eagerly aroused.
"Who gave it to you?"
She put her finger to her lip and hid the amulet in her bosom. He tried her with other questions, but she scarcely answered him.
"What does the word Esmeralda' mean?"
"I don't know," said she.
"To what language does it belong?"
"I think it is a gipsy word."
"So I suspected," said Gringoire; "you are not a native of France?"
"I know nothing about it."
"Are your parents living?"
She began to sing, to an ancient air:--
"A bird is my mother,
My father another.
Nor boat nor bark need I
As over the sea I fly;
A bird is my mother,
My father another."
"Very good," said Gringoire. "At what age did you come to France?"
"When I was very small."
"To Paris?"
"Last year. Just as we entered the Papal Gate, I saw the reed warbler skim through the air; it was the last of August. I said: It will be a hard winter."
"So it has been," said Gringoire, charmed at this beginning of conversation; "I have spent it in blowing on my fingers to keep them warm. So you have the gift of prophecy?"
She fell back into her laconicism.
"No."
"Is that man whom you call the Duke of Egypt, the head of your tribe?"
"Yes."
"But it was he who married us," timidly remarked the poet.
She made her usual pretty grimace.
"I don't even know your name."
"My name? You shall have it, if you wish: Pierre Gringoire."
"I know a nicer one," said she.
"Cruel girl!" replied the poet. "Never mind, you shall not vex me. Stay; perhaps you will love me when you know me better; and then you told me your history so confidingly that I owe you somewhat of mine. You must know, then, that my name is Pierre Gringoire, and that I am the son of the notary of Gonesse. My father was hanged by the Burgundians and my mother ripped up by the Picards, at the time of the siege of Paris, now twenty years ago. At the age of six years, therefore, I was left an orphan, with no sole to my foot but the pavement of Paris. I don't know how I managed to exist from six to sixteen. A fruit-seller would give me a plum, a baker would throw me a crust; at nightfall I would contrive to be caught by the watch, who put me in prison, and there I found a bundle of straw. All this did not hinder me from growing tall and thin, as you see. In winter time I warmed myself in the sun, under the portico of the Hotel de Sens, and I thought it very absurd that the bale-fires of St. John should be deferred until the dog-days. At the age of sixteen I wished to learn a trade. I tried everything in turn. I became a soldier, but I was not brave enough. I turned monk, but I was not pious enough; and then, I'm no drinker. In despair, I became a carpenter's apprentice, but I was not strong enough. I had more liking for the schoolmaster's trade; true, I did not know how to read, but that was no hindrance. After a time, I discovered that I lacked some necessary quality for everything; and seeing that I was good for nothing, I became a poet and composer of rhymes, of my own free will. That is a trade that one can always take up when one is a vagabond; and it is better than stealing, as certain thievish young friends of mine advised. By good luck, I one fine day encountered Dom Claude Frollo, the reverend archdeacon of Notre-Dame. He took an interest in me, and it is to him I owe it that I am now a genuine man of letters, knowing Latin, from Cicero's Offices to the necrology of the Celestine Fathers, and being ignorant of neither scholastics, poetry, nor rhythm, that sophism of sophisms. I am the author of the miracle-play performed today with great triumph, and before a great concourse of people, in the hall of the Palace. I have also written a book which will make six hundred pages, on the wonderful comet of 1465, which drove one man mad. I have also had other successes. Being somewhat of an engineer, I worked on Jean Maugue's great bomb, which you know burst on Charenton Bridge the day that it was to be tested, and killed twenty-four of the curious spectators. You see that I am by no means a bad match. I know a great many sorts of delightful tricks which I will teach your goat; for instance, how to take off the Bishop of Paris, that accursed Parisian whose mills bespatter all those who pass over the Pont-aux-Meuniers. And then, my miracle-play will bring me in plenty of ready money if they pay me. Finally, I am at your service, I and my wit and my science and my learning, --ready to live with you, lady, as it may please you: soberly or merrily; as husband and wife if you see fit; as brother and sister if you prefer."
Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of this speech upon the young girl. Her eyes were bent on the floor.
" 'Phoebus,' " she said in an undertone. Then, turning to the poet, " 'Phoebus;' what does that mean?"
Gringoire, scarcely comprehending the connection between his words and this question, was nothing loath to display his erudition. He answered, drawing himself up,--
"It is a Latin word signifying 'sun.' "
"'Sun'?" she repeated.
"It is the name of a certain handsome archer who was a god," added Gringoire.
"A god!" repeated the gipsy; and there was something pensive and passionate in her tone.
At this moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened and fell. Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up; when he rose, the girl and the goat had disappeared. He heard a bolt slide across a small door, doubtless communicating with a neighboring cell, which was fastened on the other side.
"At least, I hope she has left me a bed!" said our philosopher.
He walked around the room. There was nothing fit to sleep upon except a long wooden chest; and even that had a carved lid, which gave Gringoire a feeling, when he stretched himself out upon it, very like that experienced by Micromegasar when he slept at full length upon the Alps.
"Come," said he, making himself as comfortable as he could, "I must submit to fate. But this is an odd wedding night. It is a pity; there was something simple and antediluvian about this marriage by a broken pitcher, which I liked."
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER I
Notre-Dame
The Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris is doubtless still a sublime and majestic building. But, much beauty as it may retain in its old age, it is not easy to repress a sigh, to restrain our anger, when we mark the countless defacements and mutilations to which men and Time have subjected that venerable monument, without respect for Charlemagne, who laid its first stone, or Philip Augustus, who laid its last.
Upon the face of this aged queen of French cathedrals, beside every wrinkle we find a scar. "Tempus edax, homo edacior;" which I would fain translate thus: "Time is blind, but man is stupid."
Had we leisure to study with the reader, one by one, the various marks of destruction graven upon the ancient church, the work of Time would be the lesser, the worse that of Men, especially of "men of art," since
there are persons who have styled themselves architects during the last two centuries.
And first of all, to cite but a few glaring instances, there are assuredly few finer pages in the history of architecture than that facade where the three receding portals with their pointed arches, the carved and denticulated plinth with its twenty-eight royal niches, the huge central rose-window flanked by its two lateral windows as is the priest by his deacon and subdeacon, the lofty airy gallery of trifoliated arcades supporting a heavy platform upon its slender columns, and lastly the two dark and massive towers with their pent-house roofs of slate, harmonious parts of a magnificent whole, one above the other, five gigantic stages, unfold themselves to the eye, clearly and as a whole, with their countless details of sculpture, statuary, and carving, powerfully contributing to the calm grandeur of the whole; as it were, a vast symphony in stone; the colossal work of one man and one nation, one and yet complex, like the Iliad and the old Romance epics, to which it is akin; the tremendous sum of the joint contributions of all the forces of an entire epoch, in which every stone reveals, in a hundred forms, the fancy of the workman disciplined by the genius of the artist,--a sort of human creation, in brief, powerful and prolific as the Divine creation, whose double characteristics, variety and eternity, it seems to have acquired.
And what we say of the facade, we must also say of the whole church; and what we say of the cathedral church of Paris must also be said of all the Christian churches of the Middle Ages. Everything is harmonious which springs from that spontaneous, logical, and well-proportioned art. To measure a toe, is to measure the giant.
Let us return to the facade of Notre-Dame as we see it at the present day, when we make a pious pilgrimage to admire the solemn and mighty cathedral, which, as its chroniclers declare, inspires terror: "Quoe mole sua terrorem incutit spectantibus."
This facade now lacks three important things: first the eleven steps which formerly raised it above the level of the ground; next, the lower series of statues which filled the niches over the doors; and lastly, the upper row of the twenty-eight most ancient kings of France, which adorned the gallery of the first story, from Childe bert down to Philip Augustus, each holding in his hand "the imperial globe."
