The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

by Victor Hugo

  However, Clopin Trouillefou seemed to be conferring for a moment with the Duke of Egypt and the Emperor of Galilee, the latter being entirely drunk. Then he cried out sharply, "Silence, I say!" and as the kettle and the frying-pan paid no heed, but kept up their duet, he leaped from his cask, dealt a kick to the kettle, which rolled ten paces or more with the child, another kick to the frying-pan, which upset all the fat into the fire, and then gravely reascended his throne, utterly regardless of the little one's stifled sobs and the grumbling of the old woman whose supper had vanished in brilliant flames.

  Trouillefou made a sign, and the duke, the emperor, the arch thieves, and the dignitaries of the kingdom ranged themselves around him in the form of a horseshoe, Gringoire, still roughly grasped by the shoulders, occupying the center. It was a semicircle of rags, of tatters, of tinsel, of pitchforks, of axes, of staggering legs, of bare brawny arms, of sordid, dull, stupid faces. In the middle of this Round Table of beggary Clopin Trouillefou reigned pre-eminent, as the doge of this senate, the king of this assembly of peers, the pope of this conclave,--pre-eminent in the first place by the height of his cask, then by a peculiarly haughty, savage, and tremendous air, which made his eyes flash, and amended in his fierce profile the bestial type of the vagrant. He seemed a wild boar among swine.

  "Hark ye," he said to Gringoire, caressing his shapeless chin with his horny hand; "I see no reason why you should not be hanged. To be sure, you seem to dislike the idea, and it's very plain that you worthy townsfolk are not used to it; you've got an exaggerated idea of the thing. After all, we wish you no harm. There is one way of getting you out of the difficulty for the time being. Will you join us?"

  My reader may fancy the effect of this proposal upon Gringoire, who saw his life escaping him, and had already begun to lose his hold upon it. He clung to it once more with vigor.

  "I will indeed, with all my heart," said he.

  "Do you agree," resumed Clopin, "to enroll yourself among the gentry of the chive."an

  "Of the chive, exactly," answered Gringoire.

  "Do you acknowledge yourself a member of the rogues' brigade?" continued the King of Tunis.

  "Of the rogues' brigade."

  "A subject of the kingdom of Slang?"

  "Of the kingdom of Slang."

  "A vagrant?"

  "A vagrant."

  "At heart?"

  "At heart."

  "I would call your attention to the fact," added the King, "that you will be hanged none the less."

  "The devil!" said the poet.

  "Only," continued Clopin, quite unmoved, "you will be hanged later, with more ceremony, at the cost of the good city of Paris, on a fine stone gallows, and by honest men. That is some consolation."

  "As you say," responded Gringoire.

  "There are other advantages. As a member of the rogues' brigade you will have to pay no taxes for pavements, for the poor, or for lighting the streets, to all of which the citizens of Paris are subject."

  "So be it," said the poet; "I consent. I am a vagrant, a man of Slang, a member of the rogues' brigade, a man of the chive,--what you will; and I was all this long ago, Sir King of Tunis, for I am a philosopher; et omnia in philosophia, omnes in philosopho continentur,ao as you know."

  The King of Tunis frowned.

  "What do you take me for, mate? What Hungarian Jew's gibberish are you giving us? I don't know Hebrew. I'm no Jew, if I am a thief. I don't even steal now; I am above that; I kill. Cutthroat, yes; cutpurse, no."

  Gringoire tried to slip in some excuse between these brief phrases which anger made yet more abrupt.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord. It is not Hebrew, it is Latin."

  "I tell you," replied Clopin, furiously, "that I am no Jew, and that I will have you hanged,--by the synagogue, I will!-together with that paltry Judean cadger beside you, whom I mightily hope I may some day see nailed to a counter, like the counterfeit coin that he is!"

  So saying, he pointed to the little Hungarian Jew with the beard, who had accosted Gringoire with his "Facitote caritatem," and who, understanding no other language, was amazed at the wrath which the King of Tunis vented upon him.

  At last my lord Clopin became calm.

  "So, rascal," said he to our poet, "you wish to become a vagrant?"

  "Undoubtedly," replied the poet.

  "It is not enough merely to wish," said the surly Clopin; "goodwill never added an onion to the soup, and is good for nothing but a passport to paradise; now, paradise and Slang are two distinct things. To be received into the kingdom of Slang, you must prove that you are good for something; and to prove this you must search the manikin."ap

  "I will search," said Gringoire, "as much as ever you like."

  Clopin made a sign. A number of Slangers stepped from the circle and returned immediately, bringing a couple of posts finished at the lower end with broad wooden feet, which made them stand firmly upon the ground; at the upper end of the two posts they arranged a crossbeam, the whole forming a very pretty portable gallows, which Gringoire had the pleasure of seeing erected before him in the twinkling of an eye. Nothing was wanting, not even the rope, which swung gracefully from the crossbeam.

  "What are they going to do?" wondered Gringoire with some alarm. A sound of bells which he heard at the same moment put an end to his anxiety; it was a manikin, or puppet, that the vagrants hung by the neck to the cord,--a sort of scarecrow, dressed in red, and so loaded with little bells and hollow brasses that thirty Castilian mules might have been tricked out with them. These countless tinklers jingled for some time with the swaying of the rope, then the sound died away by degrees, and finally ceased when the manikin had been restored to a state of complete immobility by that law of the pendulum which has superseded the clepsydra and the hour-glass.

  Then Clopin, showing Gringoire a rickety old footstool, placed under the manikin, said,--

  "Climb up there!"

  "The devil!" objected Gringoire; "I shall break my neck. Your stool halts like one of Martial's couplets; one foot has six syllables and one foot has but five."

  "Climb up!" repeated Clopin.

  Gringoire mounted the stool, and succeeded, though not without considerable waving of head and arms, in recovering his center of gravity.

  "Now," resumed the King of Tunis, "twist your right foot round your left leg, and stand on tiptoe with your left foot."

  "My lord," said Gringoire, "are you absolutely determined to make me break a limb?"

  Clopin tossed his head.

  "Hark ye, mate; you talk too much. I will tell you in a couple of words what I expect you to do: you are to stand on tiptoe, as I say; in that fashion you can reach the manikin's pockets; you are to search them; you are to take out a purse which you will find there; and if you do all this without ringing a single bell, it is well: you shall become a vagrant. We shall have nothing more to do but to baste you with blows for a week."

  "Zounds! I shall take good care," said Gringoire. "And if I ring the bells?"

  "Then you shall be hanged. Do you understand?"

  "I don't understand at all," answered Gringoire.

  "Listen to me once more. You are to search the manikin and steal his purse; if but a single bell stir in the act, you shall be hanged. Do you understand that?"

  "Good," said Gringoire, "I understand that. What next?"

  "If you manage to get the purse without moving the bells, you are a vagrant, and you shall be basted with blows for seven days in succession. You understand now, I suppose?"

  "No, my lord; I no longer understand. Where is the advantage? I shall be hanged in the one case, beaten in the other?"

  "And as a vagrant," added Clopin, "and as a vagrant; does that count for nothing? It is for your own good that we shall beat you, to harden you against blows."

  "Many thanks," replied the poet.

  "Come, make haste," said the king, stamping on his cask, which re-echoed like a vast drum.

  "Make haste, and be done with it! I war
n you, once for all, that if I hear but one tinkle you shall take the manikin's place."

  The company applauded Clopin's words, and ranged themselves in a ring around the gallows, with such pitiless laughter that Gringoire saw that he amused them too much not to have everything to fear from them. His only hope lay in the slight chance of succeeding in the terrible task imposed upon him; he decided to risk it, but not without first addressing a fervent prayer to the manikin whom he was to plunder, and who seemed more easily moved than the vagrants. The myriad little bells with their tiny brazen tongues seemed to him like so many vipers with gaping jaws, ready to hiss and sting.

  "Oh," he murmured, "is it possible that my life depends upon the slightest quiver of the least of these bells? Oh," he added with clasped hands, "do not ring, ye bells! Tinkle not, ye tinklers! Jingle not, ye jinglers!"

  He made one more attempt to melt Trouillefou.

  "And if a breeze spring up?" he asked.

  "You will be hanged," answered the other, without hesitating.

  Seeing that neither respite, delay, nor subterfuge was possible, he made a desperate effort; he twisted his right foot round his left leg, stood tiptoe on his left foot, and stretched out his arm, but just as he touched the manikin, his body, now resting on one foot, tottered upon the stool, which had but three; he strove mechanically to cling to the figure, lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground, deafened and stunned by the fatal sound of the myriad bells of the manikin, which, yielding to the pressure of his hand, first revolved upon its own axis, then swung majestically to and fro between the posts.

  "A curse upon it!" he cried as he fell; and he lay as if dead, face downwards.

  Still he heard the fearful peal above his head, and the devilish laugh of the vagrants, and the voice of Trouillefou, as it said, "Lift up the knave, and hang him double-quick."

  He rose. The manikin had already been taken down to make room for him.

  The Canters made him mount the stool. Clopin stepped up to him, passed the rope round his neck, and clapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed,--

  "Farewell, mate. You can't escape now, though you have the digestion of the Pope himself."

  The word "mercy" died on Gringoire's lips. He gazed around him, but without hope; every man was laughing.

  "Bellevigne de l'Etoile," said the King of Tunis to a huge vagrant who started from the ranks, "climb upon the crossbeam."

  Bellevigne de l'Etoile nimbly climbed the crossbeam, and in an instant Gringoire, raising his eyes, with terror beheld him squatting upon it, above his head.

  "Now," continued Clopin Trouillefou, "when I clap my hands, do you, Andry le Rouge, knock away the footstool from under him; you, Francoise Chante-Prune, hang on to the knave's feet; and you, Bellevigne, jump down upon his shoulders; and all three at once, do you hear?"

  Gringoire shuddered.

  "Are you ready?" said Clopin Trouillefou to the three Canters prepared to fall upon Gringoire. The poor sufferer endured a moment of horrible suspense, while Clopin calmly pushed into the fire with his foot a few vine-branches which the flame had not yet kindled. "Are you ready?" he repeated; and he opened his hands to clap. A second more, and all would have been over.

  But he paused, as if struck by a sudden thought.

  "One moment," said he; "I forgot! It is our custom never to hang a man without asking if there be any woman who'll have him. Comrade, it's your last chance. You must marry a tramp or the rope."

  This gipsy law, strange as it may seem to the reader, is still written out in full in the ancient English codes. (See "Burington's Observations.")

  Gringoire breathed again. This was the second time that he had been restored to life within the half-hour; so he dared not feel too confident.

  "Hola!" cried Clopin, remounting his cask; "hola there, women, females! is there among you, from the old witch to her cat, a wench who'll take this scurvy knave? Hola, Colette la Charonne! Elisa beth Trouvain! Simone Jodouyne! Marie Piedcbou! Thonne la Longue! Berarde Fanouel! Michelle Genaille! Claude Ronge-Oreille! Mathurine Girorou! Hola! Isabeau la Thierrye! Come and look! a man for nothing! who'll take him?"

  Gringoire, in his wretched plight, was doubtless far from tempting. The vagabond women seemed but little moved by the offer. The luckless fellow heard them answer: "No! no! hang him; that will make sport for us all."

  Three, however, stepped from the crowd to look him over. The first was a stout, square-faced girl. She examined the philosopher's pitiable doublet most attentively. The stuff was worn, and more full of holes than a furnace for roasting chestnuts. The girl made a wry face. "An old clout!" she grumbled, and, addressing Gringoire, "Let's look at your cloak?"

  "I have lost it," said Gringoire.

  "Your hat?"

  "Some one took it from me."

  "Your shoes?"

  "The soles are almost worn through."

  "Your purse?"

  "Alas!" faltered Gringoire, "I have not a penny."

  "Be hanged to you then, and be thankful!" replied the tramp, turning her back on him.

  The second, old, weather-beaten, wrinkled, and ugly, hideous enough to be conspicuous even in the Court of Miracles, walked round and round Gringoire. He almost trembled lest she should accept him. But she muttered, "He's too thin," and took her leave.

  The third was a young girl, quite rosy and not very ugly. "Save me!" whispered the poor devil.

  She looked at him a moment with a compassionate air, then looked down, began to plait up her skirt, and seemed uncertain. He watched her every motion; this was his last ray of hope. "No," said the young woman at last; "no! Guillaume Longuejoue would beat me," and she went back to the crowd.

  "Comrade," said Clopin Trouillefou, "you're down on your luck."

  Then, standing erect upon his cask, he cried, "Will no one take this lot?" mimicking the tone of an auctioneer, to the great entertainment of all; "will no one take it? Going, going, going!" and turning to the gallows with a nod, "Gone!"

  Bellevigne de l'Etoile, Andry le Rouge, and Francois Chant-Prune approached Gringoire.

  At this instant a shout rose from the thieves: "Esmeralda! Esmeralda!"

  Gringoire trembled, and turned in the direction of the cry. The crowd opened and made way for a pure and radiant figure.

  It was the gipsy girl.

  "Esmeralda!" said Gringoire, astounded, amidst his contending emotions, at the suddenness with which that magic word connected all the various recollections of his day.

  This rare creature seemed to exercise sovereign sway through her beauty and her charm even in the Court of Miracles. Thieves, beggars, and harlots stood meekly aside to let her pass, and their brutal faces brightened at her glance.

  She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She gazed at him an instant in silence.

  "Are you going to hang this man?" she gravely asked Clopin.

  "Yes, sister," replied the King of Tunis, "unless you'll take him for your husband."

  She pouted her pretty lower lip.

  "I'll take him," said she.

  Gringoire here firmly believed that he had been dreaming ever since morning, and that this was the end of the dream.

  In fact, the sudden change of fortune, though charming, was violent.

  The slip-noose was unfastened, the poet was helped from his stool. He was obliged to seat himself, so great was his agitation.

  The Duke of Egypt, without uttering a word, brought forward an earthen pitcher. The gipsy girl offered it to Gringoire. "Throw it down," she said to him.

  The pitcher was broken into four pieces.

  "Brother," then said the Duke of Egypt, laying his hands on their heads, "she is your wife; sister, he is your husband. For four years. Go!"

  CHAPTER VII

  A Wedding Night

  few moments later our poet found himself in a small room with a vaulted roof, very snug, very warm, seated before a table which seemed to ask nothing be
tter than to borrow a few stores from a hanging cupboard close by; with a good bed in prospect, and alone with a pretty girl. The adventure partook of the nature of magic. He began seriously to think himself the hero of some fairy-tale; now and then he gazed about him as if in search of the fairy chariot, drawn by two winged steeds, which could alone have transported him so swiftly from Tartarus to Paradise. Occasionally his eyes were riveted on the holes in his doublet, to bring himself back to actual things, and lest he should quite lose sight of land. His reason, floating in imaginary realms, had only this thread to cling to.

  The young girl apparently took no notice of him: she came and went, moved a stool, chatted with her goat, smiled, and pouted. Finally she seated herself at the table, and Gringoire could study her at his leisure.

  You were once a child, reader, and you may be lucky enough to be one still. You must more than once (and for my part I spent whole days at it,--the best days of my life) have pursued from bush to bush, on the brink of some brisk stream, in bright sunshine, some lovely green or azure dragon-fly, which checked its flight at sharp angles, and kissed the tip of every twig. You will remember the loving curiosity with which your mind and your eye followed that buzzing, whizzing little whirlwind, with blue and purple wings, between which floated an intangible form, veiled by the very swiftness of its motion. The airy creature, vaguely seen amid the quivering wings, seemed to you chimerical, imaginary, impossible to touch, impossible to see. But when the dragon-fly at last rested on the tip of a reed, and you could examine, holding your breath meanwhile, its slender gauzy wings, its long enameled robes, its crystal globe-like eyes, what amazement you felt, and what fear lest it should again fade to a shadow and the creature turn to a chimera! Recall these sensations, and you will readily appreciate what Gringoire felt as he beheld in visible, palpable form that Esmeralda of whom he had hitherto had but a glimpse amidst the eddying dance and song, and a confused mass of people.

  Becoming more and more absorbed in his reverie, he thought: "This, then, is 'Esmeralda'! a celestial creature! a street dancer! So much and so little! It was she who put the finishing stroke to my play this morning; it was she who saved my life this evening. My evil genius! my good angel! A pretty woman, upon my word! And she must love me to distraction to take me in this fashion. By-the-by," said he, rising suddenly with that sense of truth which formed the basis of his character and his philosophy, "I don't quite know how it came about, but I am her husband!"