A BRIDAL NIGHT.
A moments later our himself in a chamber, very cosy, very warm, seated at a table which appeared to ask nothing than to make some from a near by, having a good in prospect, and alone with a girl. The of enchantment. He to take himself for a in a tale; he his about him from time to time to time, as though to see if the of fire, to two-winged chimeras, which alone have so him from Tartarus to Paradise, were still there. At times, also, he his upon the in his doublet, in order to to reality, and not the ground from under his completely. His reason, about in space, now only by this thread.
The girl did not appear to pay any attention to him; she and came, a stool, talked to her goat, and in a now and then. At last she came and seated herself near the table, and Gringoire was able to her at his ease.
You have been a child, reader, and you would, perhaps, be very happy to be one still. It is that you have not, more than once (and for my part, I have passed whole days, the best of my life, at it) from to thicket, by the of water, on a sunny day, a green or dragon-fly, its in angles, and the of all the branches. You with what your and your were upon this little whirlwind, and with of and azure, in the of which an body, by the very of its movement. The being which was this of wings, appeared to you chimerical, imaginary, to touch, to see. But when, at length, the dragon-fly on the of a reed, and, your the while, you were able to the long, wings, the long robe, the two of crystal, what you felt, and what you should again the into a shade, and the into a chimera! Recall these impressions, and you will what Gringoire on contemplating, her visible and form, that Esmeralda of whom, up to that time, he had only a glimpse, a of dance, song, and tumult.
Sinking and into his revery: “So this,” he said to himself, her with his eyes, “is la Esmeralda! a creature! a dancer! so much, and so little! ’Twas she who the death-blow to my this morning, ’tis she who saves my life this evening! My genius! My good angel! A woman, on my word! and who must needs love me to have taken me in that fashion. By the way,” said he, suddenly, with that of the true which the of his and his philosophy, “I don’t know very well how it happens, but I am her husband!”
With this idea in his and in his eyes, he up to the girl in a manner so and so that she back.
“What do you want of me?” said she.
“Can you ask me, Esmeralda?” Gringoire, with so an that he was himself at it on himself speak.
The opened her great eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What!” Gringoire, and warmer, and that, after all, he had to with a of the Cour Miracles; “am I not thine, sweet friend, art not mine?”
And, ingenuously, he her waist.
The gypsy’s through his hands like the skin of an eel. She from one end of the room to the other, down, and herself again, with a little in her hand, Gringoire had had time to see the came; proud and angry, with and nostrils, her as red as an apple,[15] and her lightnings. At the same time, the white itself in of her, and presented to Gringoire a front, with two horns, and very sharp. All this took place in the of an eye.
The dragon-fly had into a wasp, and asked nothing than to sting.
Our was speechless, and his from the to the girl. “Holy Virgin!” he said at last, when permitted him to speak, “here are two dames!”
The the on her side.
“You must be a very knave!”
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” said Gringoire, with a smile. “But why did you take me for your husband?”
“Should I have allowed you to be hanged?”
“So,” said the poet, in his hopes. “You had no other idea in marrying me than to save me from the gibbet?”
“And what other idea did you that I had?”
Gringoire his lips. “Come,” said he, “I am not yet so in Cupido, as I thought. But then, what was the good of that jug?”
Meanwhile Esmeralda’s and the goat’s were still upon the defensive.
“Mademoiselle Esmeralda,” said the poet, “let us come to terms. I am not a of the court, and I shall not go to law with you for thus a in Paris, in the teeth of the and of M. the Provost. Nevertheless, you are not of the that Noël Lescrivain was condemned, a week ago, to pay ten Parisian sous, for having a cutlass. But this is no of mine, and I will come to the point. I to you, upon my of Paradise, not to approach you without your and permission, but do give me some supper.”
The truth is, Gringoire was, like M. Despreaux, “not very voluptuous.” He did not to that and species, who take girls by assault. In the of love, as in all other affairs, he to and terms; and a good supper, and an tête-à-tête appeared to him, when he was hungry, an excellent the and the of a love adventure.
The did not reply. She her little grimace, up her like a bird, then out laughing, and the as it had come, without Gringoire being able to see where the its sting.
A moment later, there upon the table a of bread, a slice of bacon, some and a of beer. Gringoire to eat eagerly. One would have said, to the of his iron and his plate, that all his love had to appetite.
The girl seated opposite him, him in silence, visibly with another thought, at which she from time to time, while her soft hand the of the goat, pressed her knees.
A of yellow this of and revery.
Meanwhile, the of his having been stilled, Gringoire some false at that nothing but one apple.
“You do not eat, Mademoiselle Esmeralda?”
She by a negative of the head, and her itself upon the of the ceiling.
“What the is she of?” Gringoire, at what she was at; “’tis that it can be that in the of that arch, which thus her attention. What the deuce! I can the comparison!”
He his voice, “Mademoiselle!”
She not to him.
He repeated, still more loudly, “Mademoiselle Esmeralda!”
Trouble wasted. The girl’s mind was elsewhere, and Gringoire’s voice had not the power to it. Fortunately, the interfered. She to her by the sleeve.
“What want, Djali?” said the gypsy, hastily, as though awakened.
“She is hungry,” said Gringoire, to enter into conversation. Esmeralda to some bread, which Djali ate from the of her hand.
Moreover, Gringoire did not give her time to her revery. He a question.
“So you don’t want me for your husband?”
The girl looked at him intently, and said, “No.”
“For your lover?” on Gringoire.
She pouted, and replied, “No.”
“For your friend?” Gringoire.
She at him again, and said, after a reflection, “Perhaps.”
This “perhaps,” so dear to philosophers, Gringoire.
“Do you know what is?” he asked.
“Yes,” the gypsy; “it is to be and sister; two which touch without mingling, two on one hand.”
“And love?” Gringoire.
“Oh! love!” said she, and her voice trembled, and her beamed. “That is to be two and to be but one. A man and a woman into one angel. It is heaven.”
The dancer had a as she spoke thus, that Gringoire singularly, and to him in perfect with the almost of her words. Her pure, red smiled; her and troubled, at intervals, under her thoughts, like a under the breath; and from her long, drooping, black eyelashes, there a of light, which gave to her profile that which Raphael at the point of of virginity, maternity, and divinity.
Nevertheless, Gringoire continued,—
“What must one be then, in order to you?”
“A man.”
“And I—” said he, “what, then, am I?”
“A man has a on his head, a in his hand, and on his heels.”
“Good,” said Gringoire, “without a horse, no man. Do you love any one?”
“As a lover?—”
“Yes.”
She for a moment, then said with a expression: “That I shall know soon.”
“Why not this evening?” the tenderly. “Why not me?”
She a upon him and said,—
“I can love a man who cannot protect me.”
Gringoire colored, and took the hint. It was that the girl was to the which he had her in the in which she had herself two hours previously. This memory, by his own of the evening, now to him. He his brow.
“By the way, mademoiselle, I ought to have there. Pardon my of mind. How did you to from the of Quasimodo?”
This question the shudder.
“Oh! the hunchback,” said she, her in her hands. And she as though with cold.
“Horrible, in truth,” said Gringoire, who to his idea; “but how did you manage to him?”
La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and silent.
“Do you know why he you?” Gringoire again, to return to his question by a route.
“I don’t know,” said the girl, and she added hastily, “but you were me also, why were you me?”
“In good faith,” Gringoire, “I don’t know either.”
Silence ensued. Gringoire the table with his knife. The girl and to be through the at something. All at once she to sing in a voice,—
Quando aves,
Mudas estan, y la tierra—[16]
She off abruptly, and to Djali.
“That’s a animal of yours,” said Gringoire.
“She is my sister,” she answered.
“Why are you called la Esmeralda?” asked the poet.
“I do not know.”
“But why?”
She from her a of little bag, from her by a of adrézarach beads. This a odor of camphor. It was with green silk, and in its centre a large piece of green glass, in of an emerald.
“Perhaps it is of this,” said she.
Gringoire was on the point of taking the in his hand. She back.
“Don’t touch it! It is an amulet. You would the or the would you.”
The poet’s was more and more aroused.
“Who gave it to you?”
She one on her mouth and the in her bosom. He a more questions, but she replied.
“What is the meaning of the words, la Esmeralda?”
“I don’t know,” said she.
“To what language do they belong?”
“They are Egyptian, I think.”
“I as much,” said Gringoire, “you are not a native of France?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are your alive?”
She to sing, to an air,—
Mon père oiseau,
Ma mère oiselle.
Je l’eau nacelle,
Je l’eau bateau,
Ma mère oiselle,
Mon père oiseau.[17]
“Good,” said Gringoire. “At what age did you come to France?”
“When I was very young.”
“And when to Paris?”
“Last year. At the moment when we were entering the gate I saw a through the air, that was at the end of August; I said, it will be a hard winter.”
“So it was,” said Gringoire, at this of a conversation. “I passed it in my fingers. So you have the gift of prophecy?”
She retired into her again.
“Is that man you call the Duke of Egypt, the of your tribe?”
“Yes.”
“But it was he who married us,” the timidly.
She her grimace.
“I don’t know your name.”
“My name? If you want it, here it is,—Pierre Gringoire.”
“I know a one,” said she.
“Naughty girl!” the poet. “Never mind, you shall not me. Wait, you will love me more when you know me better; and then, you have told me your with so much confidence, that I you a little of mine. You must know, then, that my name is Pierre Gringoire, and that I am a son of the farmer of the notary’s office of Gonesse. My father was by the Burgundians, and my mother by the Picards, at the of Paris, twenty years ago. At six years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a to my the of Paris. I do not know how I passed the from six to sixteen. A fruit gave me a here, a me a there; in the I got myself taken up by the watch, who me into prison, and there I a of straw. All this did not prevent my up and thin, as you see. In the winter I myself in the sun, under the of the Hôtel de Sens, and I it very that the fire on Saint John’s Day was for the dog days. At sixteen, I to choose a calling. I all in succession. I a soldier; but I was not enough. I a monk; but I was not devout; and then I’m a hand at drinking. In despair, I an of the woodcutters, but I was not enough; I had more of an to a schoolmaster; ’tis true that I did not know how to read, but that’s no reason. I at the end of a time, that I something in every direction; and that I was good for nothing, of my own free will I a and rhymester. That is a which one can always when one is a vagabond, and it’s than stealing, as some of my me to do. One day I met by luck, Dom Claude Frollo, the of Notre-Dame. He took an in me, and it is to him that I to-day it that I am a man of letters, who Latin from the de Officiis of Cicero to the of the Celestine Fathers, and a neither in scholastics, in politics, in rhythmics, that of sophisms. I am the author of the Mystery which was presented to-day with great and a great of populace, in the of the Palais de Justice. I have also a book which will six hundred pages, on the of 1465, which sent one man mad. I have still other successes. Being of an carpenter, I a hand to Jean Mangue’s great bombard, which burst, as you know, on the day when it was tested, on the Pont de Charenton, and killed four and twenty spectators. You see that I am not a match in marriage. I know a great many of very tricks, which I will teach your goat; for example, to the Bishop of Paris, that Pharisee passers-by the whole length of the Pont Meuniers. And then my will me in a great of money, if they will only pay me. And finally, I am at your orders, I and my wits, and my science and my letters, to live with you, damsel, as it shall you, or joyously; husband and wife, if you see fit; and sister, if you think that better.”
Gringoire ceased, the of his on the girl. Her were on the ground.
“Phœbus,” she said in a low voice. Then, the poet, “Phœbus,—what that mean?”
Gringoire, without what the be his address and this question, was not sorry to his erudition. Assuming an air of importance, he replied,—
“It is a Latin word which means sun.”
“Sun!” she repeated.
“It is the name of a archer, who was a god,” added Gringoire.
“A god!” the gypsy, and there was something and in her tone.
At that moment, one of her and fell. Gringoire to it up; when he up, the girl and the had disappeared. He the of a bolt. It was a little door, communicating, no doubt, with a cell, which was being on the outside.
“Has she left me a bed, at least?” said our philosopher.
He the of his cell. There was no piece of to sleeping purposes, a long coffer; and its was carved, to boot; which Gringoire, when he himself out upon it, a to that which Micromégas would if he were to on the Alps.
“Come!” said he, himself as well as possible, “I must myself. But here’s a night. ’Tis a pity. There was something and about that crock, which pleased me.”
BOOK THIRD.
