KISSES FOR BLOWS.
When Pierre Gringoire on the Place de Grève, he was paralyzed. He had his across the Pont Meuniers, in order to avoid the on the Pont au Change, and the of Jehan Fourbault; but the of all the bishop’s had him as he passed, and his was drenched; it to him besides, that the failure of his piece had him still more to cold than usual. Hence he to near the bonfire, which was in the middle of the Place. But a a circle around it.
“Accursed Parisians!” he said to himself (for Gringoire, like a true poet, was to monologues) “there they are my fire! Nevertheless, I am in need of a corner; my shoes drink in the water, and all those upon me! That of a Bishop of Paris, with his mills! I’d just like to know what use a can make of a mill! Does he to a of a bishop? If only my is needed for that, I it upon him! and his cathedral, and his mills! Just see if those will put themselves out! Move aside! I’d like to know what they are doing there! They are themselves, much may it give them! They are a hundred burn; a spectacle!”
On looking more closely, he that the circle was much larger than was for the purpose of warm at the king’s fire, and that this of people had not been by the of the hundred which were burning.
In a space left free the and the fire, a girl was dancing.
Whether this girl was a being, a fairy, or an angel, is what Gringoire, and that he was, not decide at the moment, so was he by this vision.
She was not tall, though she so, so did her about. She was of complexion, but one that, by day, her skin must that of the Andalusians and the Roman women. Her little foot, too, was Andalusian, for it was and at in its shoe. She danced, she turned, she about on an old Persian rug, spread under her feet; and each time that her passed you, as she whirled, her great black a of at you.
All around her, all were riveted, all mouths open; and, in fact, when she thus, to the of the Basque tambourine, which her two pure, arms above her head, slender, and as a wasp, with her of gold without a fold, her out, her shoulders, her limbs, which her at times, her black hair, her of flame, she was a creature.
“In truth,” said Gringoire to himself, “she is a salamander, she is a nymph, she is a goddess, she is a of the Menelean Mount!”
At that moment, one of the salamander’s of unfastened, and a piece of yellow copper which was to it, rolled to the ground.
“Hé, no!” said he, “she is a gypsy!”
All had disappeared.
She her once more; she took from the ground two swords, points she rested against her brow, and which she to turn in one direction, while she in the other; it was a purely effect. But, though Gringoire was, the whole of this picture was not without its and its magic; the illuminated, with a red light, which trembled, all alive, over the circle of in the crowd, on the of the girl, and at the of the Place a reflection, on one upon the ancient, black, and façade of the House of Pillars, on the other, upon the old gibbet.
Among the thousands of which that light with scarlet, there was one which seemed, more than all the others, in of the dancer. It was the of a man, austere, calm, and sombre. This man, was by the which him, did not appear to be more than five and thirty years of age; nevertheless, he was bald; he had a of thin, on his temples; his broad, high had to be with wrinkles, but his deep-set with youthfulness, an life, a passion. He them on the gypsy, and, while the girl of sixteen and whirled, for the of all, his to more and more sombre. From time to time, a and a met upon his lips, but the was more than the sigh.
The girl, stopped at length, breathless, and the people her lovingly.
“Djali!” said the gypsy.
Then Gringoire saw come up to her, a little white goat, alert, wide-awake, glossy, with horns, hoofs, and collar, which he had not perceived, and which had up on one of the his dance.
“Djali!” said the dancer, “it is your turn.”
And, seating herself, she presented her to the goat.
“Djali,” she continued, “what month is this?”
The its foot, and one upon the tambourine. It was the month in the year, in fact.
“Djali,” the girl, her round, “what day of the month is this?”
Djali his little hoof, and six on the tambourine.
“Djali,” the Egyptian, with still another movement of the tambourine, “what hour of the day is it?”
Djali seven blows. At that moment, the clock of the Pillar House out seven.
The people were amazed.
“There’s at the of it,” said a voice in the crowd. It was that of the man, who his from the gypsy.
She and round; but and the exclamation.
It it so from her mind, that she to question her goat.
“Djali, what Master Guichard Grand-Remy, captain of the of the town do, at the of Candlemas?”
Djali himself on his legs, and to bleat, along with so much gravity, that the entire circle of into a laugh at this of the of the captain of pistoliers.
“Djali,” the girl, by her success, “how Master Jacques Charmolue, to the king in the court?”
The seated himself on his quarters, and to bleat, his in so a manner, that, with the of the French, and Latin, Jacques Charmolue was there complete,—gesture, accent, and attitude.
And the louder than ever.
“Sacrilege! profanation!” the voice of the man.
The once more.
“Ah!” said she, “’tis that man!” Then, her under lip out the upper, she a little pout, which appeared to be familiar to her, a on her heel, and set about in her the gifts of the multitude.
Big blanks, little blanks, targes[8] and into it.
All at once, she passed in of Gringoire. Gringoire put his hand so into his pocket that she halted. “The devil!” said the poet, at the of his pocket the reality, that is, to say, a void. In the meantime, the girl there, at him with her big eyes, and out her to him and waiting. Gringoire into a perspiration.
If he had all Peru in his pocket, he would have it to the dancer; but Gringoire had not Peru, and, moreover, America had not yet been discovered.
Happily, an came to his rescue.
“Will you take off, you Egyptian grasshopper?” a voice, which from the of the Place.
The girl in affright. It was no longer the voice of the man; it was the voice of a woman, and malicious.
However, this cry, which the gypsy, a of children who were about there.
“It is the of the Tour-Roland,” they exclaimed, with wild laughter, “it is the who is scolding! Hasn’t she supped? Let’s her the of the city refreshments!”
All the Pillar House.
In the meanwhile, Gringoire had taken of the dancer’s embarrassment, to disappear. The children’s had him that he, also, had not supped, so he ran to the public buffet. But the little had than he; when he arrived, they had the table. There not so much as a at five the pound. Nothing upon the but fleurs-de-lis, with rose bushes, painted in 1434 by Mathieu Biterne. It was a supper.
It is an thing to go to without supper, it is a still less thing not to and not to know where one is to sleep. That was Gringoire’s condition. No supper, no shelter; he saw himself pressed on all by necessity, and he very crabbed. He had long ago the truth, that Jupiter men a fit of misanthropy, and that a wise man’s whole life, his his in a of siege. As for himself, he had the so complete; he his a parley, and he it very much out of place that should his by famine.
This was him more and more, when a song, but full of sweetness, him from it. It was the who was singing.
Her voice was like her dancing, like her beauty. It was and charming; something pure and sonorous, aerial, winged, so to speak. There were outbursts, melodies, cadences, then phrases with and notes; then of which would have put a to rout, but in which was always present; then soft of which rose and fell, like the of the singer. Her followed, with mobility, all the of her song, from the to the dignity. One would have her now a creature, now a queen.
The which she sang were in a unknown to Gringoire, and which to him to be unknown to herself, so little relation did the which she to her song to the of the words. Thus, these four lines, in her mouth, were gay,—
Un de riqueza
Hallaron un pilar,
Dentro del, banderas
Con de espantar.[9]
And an afterwards, at the which she to this stanza,—
Alarabes de cavallo
Sin menear,
Con espadas, y cuellos,
Ballestas de echar,
Gringoire the start to his eyes. Nevertheless, her song joy, most of all, and she to sing like a bird, from and heedlessness.
The gypsy’s song had Gringoire’s as the the water. He in a of rapture, and of everything. It was the moment in the of many hours when he did not that he suffered.
The moment was brief.
The same woman’s voice, which had the gypsy’s dance, her song.
“Will you your tongue, you of hell?” it cried, still from the same of the place.
The “cricket” stopped short. Gringoire up his ears.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “accursed saw with missing teeth, which comes to the lyre!”
Meanwhile, the other like himself; “To the with the nun!” said some of them. And the old kill-joy might have had occasion to of her against the had their attention not been at this moment by the of the Pope of the Fools, which, after having many and squares, on the Place de Grève, with all its and all its uproar.
This procession, which our readers have set out from the Palais de Justice, had on the way, and had been recruited by all the knaves, thieves, and in Paris; so that it presented a very when it at the Grève.
First came Egypt. The Duke of Egypt it, on horseback, with his on his and for him; them, the male and female Egyptians, pell-mell, with their little children on their shoulders; all—duke, counts, and populace—in and tatters. Then came the Kingdom of Argot; that is to say, all the of France, according to the order of their dignity; the minor people walking first. Thus by fours, with the of their grades, in that faculty, most of them lame, some cripples, others one-armed, shop clerks, pilgrims, hubins, bootblacks, thimble-riggers, arabs, beggars, the blear-eyed beggars, thieves, the weakly, vagabonds, merchants, soldiers, goldsmiths, passed masters of pickpockets, thieves. A that would Homer. In the centre of the of the passed masters of pickpockets, one had some in the King of Argot, the coësre, so called, in a little by two big dogs. After the of the Argotiers, came the Empire of Galilee. Guillaume Rousseau, Emperor of the Empire of Galilee, in his of purple, with wine, by and dances; by his macebearers, his and of the of accounts. Last of all came the of law clerks, with its with flowers, its black robes, its music of the orgy, and its large of yellow wax. In the centre of this crowd, the officers of the Brotherhood of Fools on their a more with than the of Sainte-Geneviève in time of pest; and on this resplendent, with crosier, cope, and mitre, the new Pope of the Fools, the of Notre-Dame, Quasimodo the hunchback.
Each of this had its own music. The Egyptians their and African resound. The men, not a very race, still to the goat’s and the Gothic of the century. The Empire of Galilee was not much more advanced; among its music one some rebec, from the of the art, still in the ré-la-mi. But it was around the Pope of the Fools that all the of the were in a discord. It was nothing but rebecs, counter-tenor rebecs, and rebecs, not to the and instruments. Alas! our readers will that this was Gringoire’s orchestra.
It is difficult to an idea of the of proud and to which the sad and of Quasimodo had the from the Palais de Justice, to the Place de Grève. It was the of self-love that he had experienced. Down to that day, he had only humiliation, for his condition, for his person. Hence, though he was, he enjoyed, like a pope, the of that throng, which he he that he was by it. What it that his people of a pack of fools, cripples, thieves, and beggars? it was still a people and he was its sovereign. And he all this applause, all this respect, with which the mingled, it must be admitted, a good of very fear. For the was robust; for the bandy-legged was agile; for the man was malicious: three which ridicule.
We are from believing, however, that the new Pope of the Fools the which he and the which he inspired. The which was in this failure of a had, necessarily, something and about it. Thus, what he at the moment was to him, vague, indistinct, and confused. Only itself felt, only dominated. Around that and face, there a radiance.
It was, then, not without and alarm, that at the very moment when Quasimodo was the Pillar House, in that semi-intoxicated state, a man was to from the crowd, and to tear from his hands, with a of anger, his of wood, the of his popeship.
This man, this individual, was the man with the brow, who, a moment earlier, with the gypsy’s group had the girl with his of and of hatred. He was in an costume. At the moment when he from the crowd, Gringoire, who had not noticed him up to that time, him: “Hold!” he said, with an of astonishment. “Eh! ’tis my master in Hermes, Dom Claude Frollo, the archdeacon! What the he want of that old one-eyed fellow? He’ll himself devoured!”
A of terror arose, in fact. The Quasimodo had himself from the litter, and the their in order not to see him tear the asunder.
He one as as the priest, looked at him, and upon his knees.
The off his tiara, his crozier, and rent his cope.
Quasimodo on his knees, with and hands clasped. Then there was them a of and gestures, for neither of them spoke. The priest, on his feet, irritated, threatening, imperious; Quasimodo, prostrate, humble, suppliant. And, nevertheless, it is that Quasimodo have the with his thumb.
At length the archdeacon, Quasimodo’s powerful a shake, him a to and him.
Quasimodo rose.
Then the Brotherhood of Fools, their having passed off, to their pope, so dethroned. The Egyptians, the men of slang, and all the of law clerks, the priest.
Quasimodo himself in of the priest, set in play the of his fists, and upon the with the of an angry tiger.
The his gravity, a to Quasimodo, and retired in silence.
Quasimodo walked in of him, the as he passed.
When they had the and the Place, the cloud of and were to them. Quasimodo then himself the rearguard, and the archdeacon, walking backwards, squat, surly, monstrous, bristling, up his limbs, his boar’s tusks, like a wild beast, and to the vibrations, with a look or a gesture.
Both were allowed to into a dark and narrow street, where no one to after them; so did the of Quasimodo his teeth the entrance.
“Here’s a thing,” said Gringoire; “but where the shall I some supper?”
