Hunchback of Notre Dame (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Victor Hugo

  “So you are happy?”

  Gringoire eagerly replied,—

  “Yes, on my honor! At first I loved women, then animals; now I love stones. They are quite as amusing as animals or women, and they are less treacherous.”

  The priest pressed his hand to his head. It was his habitual gesture.

  “Indeed?”

  “Stay!” said Gringoire; “you shall see my pleasures!” He took the arm of the unresisting priest, and led him into the staircase turret of For-l‘Evêque. “There’s a staircase for you! Every time I see it I am happy. It is the simplest and yet the rarest in Paris. Every step is beveled underneath. Its beauty and simplicity consist in the treads, which, for a foot or more in width, are interlaced, mortised, dovetailed, jointed, linked together, and set into one another in a genuinely solid and goodly way.”

  “And you desire nothing more?”

  “No.”

  “And you have no regrets?”

  “Neither regret nor desire. I have arranged my mode of life.”

  “What man arranges,” said Claude, “circumstances disarrange.”

  “I am a Pyrrhonian philosopher,” replied Gringoire, “and I keep everything equally balanced.”

  “And how do you earn your living?”

  “I still write occasional epics and tragedies; but what brings me in the most, is that trade which you have seen me follow, master,—namely, upholding pyramids of chairs in my teeth.”

  “That is a sorry trade for a philosopher.”

  “‘Tis keeping up an equilibrium all the same,” said Gringoire. “When one has but a single idea he finds it in everything.”

  “I know that!” responded the archdeacon.

  After a pause he added,—

  “And yet you are poor enough?”

  “Poor! Yes; but not unhappy.”

  At this instant the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard, and our two friends saw a company of archers belonging to the king’s ordnance file by at the end of the street, with raised lances, and an officer at their head. The cavalcade was a brilliant one, and clattered noisily over the pavement.

  “How you stare at that officer!” said Gringoire to the arch deacon.

  “Because I think I have seen him before.”

  “What is his name?”

  “I believe,” said Claude, “that his name is Phœbus de Château pers.”

  “Phoebus! a queer name! There is also a Phoebus, Count de Foix. I once knew a girl who never swore save by Phœbus.”

  “Come with me,” said the priest. “I have something to say to you.”

  Ever since the troops passed by, some agitation was apparent beneath the icy exterior of the archdeacon. He walked on; Gringoire followed, accustomed to obey him, like all who ever approached that man full of such ascendency. They reached the Rue des Bernardins in silence, and found it quite deserted. Here Dom Claude paused.

  “What have you to tell me, master?” asked Gringoire.

  “Don’t you think,” replied the archdeacon, with a most reflective air, “that the dress of those horsemen whom we just saw is far handsomer than yours and mine?”

  Gringoire shook his head.

  “I’ faith! I like my red and yellow jacket better than those scales of steel and iron. What pleasure can there be in making as much noise when you walk as the Quai de la Ferraille in an earthquake?”

  “Then, Gringoire, you never envied those fine fellows in their warlike array?”

  “Envied them what, Sir Archdeacon,—their strength, their armor, or their discipline? Philosophy and independence in rags are far preferable. I would rather be the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.”

  “That’s strange,” said the priest, meditatively. “And yet a handsome uniform is a fine thing.”

  Gringoire, seeing that he was absorbed in thought, left him in order to admire the porch of a neighboring house. He came back clapping his hands.

  “If you were not so absorbed in the fine uniforms of those soldiers, Sir Archdeacon, I would beg you to take a look at that door. I always said that my lord Aubry’s house had the most superb entrance in the world.”

  “Pierre Gringoire,” said the archdeacon, “what have you done with that little gipsy dancer?”

  “Esmeralda? What a sudden change of subject!”

  “Was she not your wife?”

  “Yes, by means of a broken pitcher. We are married for four years. By the way,” added Gringoire, regarding the archdeacon with a half-bantering air, “are you still thinking of her?”

  “And you,—do you think of her no longer?”

  “Seldom. I have so many other things to occupy me. Heavens! how pretty that little goat of hers was!”

  “Did not the girl save your life?”

  “She did indeed, by Jupiter!”

  “Well, what has become of her? What have you done with her?”

  “I can’t say, I fancy that they hanged her.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I’m not sure of it. When I saw that they had taken to hanging people, I withdrew from the game.”

  “Is that all you know about the matter?”

  “Stay. I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame, and that she was in safety there, and I am delighted to hear it; and I can’t find out whether the goat was saved along with her. And that’s all I know about it.”

  “I’ll tell you more,” cried Dom Claude; and his voice, hitherto so low, slow, and almost muffled, became as loud as thunder. “She did indeed take refuge in Notre-Dame. But within three days justice will again overtake her, and she will be hanged upon the Place de Grève. Parliament has issued a decree.”

  “That’s a pity!” said Gringoire.

  The priest, in the twinkling of an eye, had recovered his coldness and calm.

  “And who the devil,” resumed the poet, “has amused himself by soliciting an order of restitution? Why couldn’t he have left Parliament in peace? What harm does it do if a poor girl takes shelter under the flying buttresses of Notre-Dame, alongside of the swallows’ nests?”

  “There are Satans in the world,” replied the archdeacon.

  “That’s a devilish bad job,” observed Gringoire.

  The archdeacon resumed, after a pause,—

  “So she saved your life?”

  “From my good friends the Vagrants. A little more, or a little less, and I should have been hanged. They would be very sorry for it now.”

  “Don’t you want to do anything to help her?”

  “With all my heart, Dom Claude; but what if I should get myself into trouble?”

  “What would that matter?”

  “What! what would it matter? How kind you are, master! I have two great works but just begun.”

  The priest struck his forehead. In spite of his feigned calmness, an occasional violent gesture betrayed his inward struggles.

  “How is she to be saved?”

  Gringoire said: “Master, I might answer, ‘Il padelt,’ which is Turkish for, ‘God is our hope.’”

  “How is she to be saved?” dreamily repeated the archdeacon.

  Gringoire in his turn clapped his hand to his head.

  “See here, master, I have a lively imagination; I will devise various expedients. Suppose the king were asked to pardon her?”

  “Louis XI,—to pardon!”

  “Why not?”

  “As well try to rob a tiger of his bone!”

  Gringoire set to work to find some fresh solution of the difficulty.

  “Well!—stop!—Do you want me to draw up a petition to the midwives declaring the girl to be pregnant?”

  This made the priest’s hollow eye flash.

  “Pregnant, villain! do you know anything about it?”

  Gringoire was terrified by his expression. He made haste to say, “Oh, no, not I! our marriage was a true forismaritagium. I was entirely left out. But at any rate, we should gain time.”

  “Folly! infamy! be silent!”

  “
You are wrong to be so vexed,” grumbled Gringoire. “We should gain time; it would do no one any harm, and the midwives, who are poor women, would earn forty Paris pence.”

  The priest paid no attention to him.

  “And yet she must be got away!” he muttered. “The order will be executed within three days! Besides, even if there were no order, that Quasimodo! Women have very depraved tastes!” He raised his voice: “Master Pierre, I considered it well; there’s but one means of salvation for her.”

  “What is it? I, for my part, see none.”

  “Listen, Master Pierre, and remember that you owe your life to her. I will frankly tell you my idea. The church is watched night and day. No one is allowed to come out but those who are seen to go in. Therefore, you can go in. You will come, and I will take you to her. You will change clothes with her. She will put on your doublet; you will put on her gown.”

  “So far, so good,” remarked the philosopher. “What next?”

  “What next? She will walk out in your clothes; you will stay behind in hers. Perhaps they may hang you, but she will be saved.”

  Gringoire scratched his ear, with a very grave look.

  “There!” said he; “that’s an idea which would never have occurred to me.”

  At Dom Claude’s unexpected proposition, the poet’s benign and open face had suddenly darkened, like a smiling Italian landscape when some fatal blast sweeps a cloud across the sun.

  “Well, Gringoire, what do you say to the plan?”

  “I say, master, that they would not hang me perhaps, but they would hang me without the slightest doubt.”

  “That does not concern us!”

  “The Devil it doesn‘t!” said Gringoire.

  “She saved your life. You would only be paying your debt.”

  “There are plenty of others which I have not paid.”

  “Master Pierre, it absolutely must be done.”

  The archdeacon spoke with authority.

  “Listen to me, Dom Claude,” replied the dismayed poet. “You cling to that idea, and you are wrong. I don’t see why I should be hanged in another person’s stead.”

  “What makes you so fond of life?”

  “Oh, a thousand things!”

  “What are they, if you please?”

  “What? The air, the sky, morning and evening, moonlight, my good friends the Vagabonds, our larks with the girls, the architectural beauties of Paris to study, three big books to write,—one of which is directed against the bishop and his mills,—and I know not what else. Anaxagoras said that he came into the world to admire the sun; and besides, I have the pleasure of spending all my days, from morning till night, with a man of genius, to wit, myself, and that is a mighty agreeable thing.”

  “Rattle-pate!” muttered the archdeacon. “Well, speak; who preserved that life of yours which you find so delightful? To whom do you owe it that you still breathe this air, behold that sky, and are still able to amuse your feather-brain with trifles and nonsense? Where would you be now, but for her? Would you have her die, to whom you owe your life,—have her die, that sweet, lovely, adorable creature, necessary to the light of the world, more divine than God himself, while you, half madman and half sage, a mere sketch of something or other, a sort of vegetable growth which fancies that it walks and fancies that it thinks,—you are to go on living with the life of which you have robbed her, as useless as a candle at high noon? Come, have a little pity, Gringoire; be generous in your turn; she set you the example.”

  The priest was excited. At first Gringoire listened with an air of indecision; then he relented, and ended by pulling a tragic grimace, which made his pallid face look like that of a new-born baby with the colic.

  “You are pathetic!” said he, wiping away a tear. “Well, I will consider it. That’s an odd idea of yours. After all,” he added, after a pause, “who knows? Perhaps they would not hang me. Betrothal is not always marriage. When they find me in her cell, so ridiculously arrayed, in cap and petticoats, perhaps they’ll burst out laughing. And then, if they do hang me, why, the rope is like any other death; or, rather, it’s not like any other death. It is a death worthy of the wise man who has wavered and swung to and fro all his life,—a death which is neither fish nor flesh, like the spirit of the genuine sceptic; a death fully impressed with Pyrrhonism and uncertainty, a happy medium between heaven and earth, which leaves one in suspense. It is the right death for a philosopher, and perhaps I was predestined to it. It is magnificent to die as one has lived.”

  The priest interrupted him: “Is it agreed?”

  “What is death, after all?” continued Gringoire, with exaltation. “An unpleasant moment, a turnpike gate, the passage from little to nothing. Some one having asked Cercidas, of Magalopolis, if he was willing to die, ‘Why not?’ he answered: ‘for after my death I shall see those great men,—Pythagoras among the philosophers, Hecatæus among the historians, Homer among the poets, Olympus among the musicians.”’

  The archdeacon offered him his hand. “It is settled, then? You will come tomorrow.”

  This gesture brought Gringoire back to reality.

  “Oh, no; by my faith!” said he in the tone of a man awaking from sleep. “To be hanged! That is too absurd. I’ll not do it.”

  “Farewell, then!” and the archdeacon added between his teeth, “I shall see you again!”

  “I have no desire to see that devil of a man again,” thought Gringoire; and he hurried after Dom Claude. “Stay, Sir Archdeacon; no malice between old friends! You take an interest in that girl,—in my wife, I should say; it is well. You have planned a stratagem for rescuing her from Notre-Dame; but your scheme is a very disagreeable one for me, Gringoire. Suppose I have another! I warn you that a most brilliant inspiration has just occurred to me. What if I have a suitable plan for getting her out of her evil plight without compromising my own neck in the least of slip-nooses, what would you say? Wouldn’t that satisfy you? Is it absolutely necessary that I should be hanged, to suit you?”

  The priest impatiently wrenched the buttons from his cassock, saying, “What a flood of words! What is your scheme?”

  “Yes,” resumed Gringoire, talking to himself, and laying his finger to his nose in token of his absorption, “that’s just it! The Vagabonds are brave fellows. The gipsy nation love her! They will rise at a single word! Nothing easier! A sudden attack; amidst the confusion she can readily be carried off. Tomorrow night. They will ask nothing better.”

  “Your plan! speak!” said the priest, shaking him roughly.

  Gringoire turned majestically towards him. “Let me alone! Don’t you see that I am in the throes of composition?” He reflected for a few moments more, then clapped his hands in delight, exclaiming, “Capital! success is assured!”

  “Your plan!” angrily repeated Claude.

  Gringoire was radiant.

  “Come close, and let me whisper it to you. It is really a jolly countermine, and one which will get us all out of difficulty. Zounds! you must confess that I am no fool.”

  He interrupted himself,—

  “Oh, by the way! is the little goat still with the girl?”

  “Yes. May the foul fiend fly away with you!”

  “They were going to hang her too, were they not?”

  “What is that to me?”

  “Yes, they would have hanged her. They did hang a sow last month. The hangman likes that; he eats the animal afterwards. Hang my pretty Djali! Poor little lamb!”

  “Curses on you!” cried Dom Claude. “You are the executioner yourself. What means of saving her have you hit upon, rascal? Must I tear your idea from you with the forceps?”

  “Softly, master! It is this.”

  Gringoire bent to the archdeacon’s ear, and whispered to him, casting an anxious glance up and down the street meanwhile, although there was no one in sight. When he ended, Dom Claude took his hand and said coldly, “It is well. Until tomorrow, then.”

  “Until tomorrow,” repeated Gringoire. And
as the archdeacon departed in one direction, he moved away in the other, muttering. “Here’s a pretty business, Master Pierre Gringoire! Never mind! It shall not be said that because a man is little he is afraid of a great enterprise. Biton carried a full-grown bull upon his shoulders; wag-tails, black-caps, and stone-chats cross the sea.”

  CHAPTER II

  Turn Vagabond!

  The archdeacon, on returning to the cloisters, found his brother, Jehan du Moulin, awaiting him at the door of his cell. He had whiled away the fatigue of waiting by drawing upon the wall in charcoal his elder brother’s profile, enriched with an exaggerated nose.

  Dom Claude scarcely looked at his brother; he had other cares. That merry roguish face, whose radiance had so often brightened the priest’s gloomy countenance, was now incapable of dissipating the clouds which grew daily thicker over that corrupt, mephitic, stagnant soul.

  “Brother,” timidly said Jehan, “I have come to see you.”

  The archdeacon did not even deign to look at him.

  “Well?”

  “Brother,” continued the hypocrite, “you are so good to me, and you give me such good advice, that I am always coming back to you.”

  “Well?”

  “Alas! brother, how right you were when you said to me, ‘Jehan! Jehan! cessat doctorum doctrina, discipulorum, disciplina! Jehan, be prudent; Jehan, be studious; Jehan, do not wander outside the college bounds at night without just cause and leave from your master. Do not quarrel with the Picards (noli, Joannes, verberare Picardos). Do not lie and molder like an illiterate ass (quasi asinus illiteratus) amidst the litter of the schools. Jehan, suffer yourself to be punished at the discretion of your master. Jehan, go to chapel every evening, and sing an anthem with a collect and prayer to our Glorious Lady, the Virgin Mary.’ Alas! What excellent counsels were these!”

  “Well?”

  “Brother, you see before you a guilty wretch, a criminal, a miserable sinner, a libertine, a monster! My dear brother, Jehan has trampled your advice beneath his feet. I am fitly punished for it, and the good God is strangely just. So long as I had money I rioted and reveled and led a jolly life. Oh, how charming is the face of Vice, but how ugly and crooked is her back! Now, I have not a single silver coin; I have sold my table-cloth, my shirt, and my towel; no more feasting for me! The wax candle has burned out, and I have nothing left but a wretched tallow dip, which reeks in my nostrils. The girls laugh at me. I drink water. I am tormented by creditors and remorse.”