IMMANIS PECORIS CUSTOS, IMMANIOR IPSE.
Now, in 1482, Quasimodo had up. He had a years the of Notre-Dame, thanks to his father by adoption, Claude Frollo,—who had of Josas, thanks to his suzerain, Messire Louis de Beaumont,—who had Bishop of Paris, at the death of Guillaume Chartier in 1472, thanks to his patron, Olivier Le Daim, to Louis XI., king by the of God.
So Quasimodo was the of the of Notre-Dame.
In the of time there had been a which the to the church. Separated from the world, by the of his unknown birth and his natural deformity, from his in that circle, the had used to nothing in this world the religious which had him under their shadow. Notre-Dame had been to him successively, as he up and developed, the egg, the nest, the house, the country, the universe.
There was a of and pre-existing this and this church. When, still a little fellow, he had himself and by the of its vaults, he seemed, with his and his limbs, the natural of that and pavement, upon which the of the Romanesque so many forms.
Later on, the time that he hold, mechanically, of the to the towers, and from them, and set the to clanging, it produced upon his father, Claude, the of a child is and who to speak.
It is thus that, little by little, always in with the cathedral, there, sleeping there, it, every hour to the impress, he came to it, he himself in it, so to speak, and an part of it. His into the of the (if we may be allowed this of speech), and he not only its but more than that, its natural tenant. One might almost say that he had its form, as the takes on the of its shell. It was his dwelling, his hole, his envelope. There him and the old church so an sympathy, so many magnetic affinities, so many material affinities, that he to it as a to its shell. The and was his shell.
It is to the reader not to take all the which we are to here to the singular, symmetrical, direct, almost of a man and an edifice. It is to to what a that whole was familiar to him, after so long and so a cohabitation. That was to him. It had no to which Quasimodo had not penetrated, no which he had not scaled. He often many up the front, by the points of the carving. The towers, on surface he was clambering, like a along a wall, those two twins, so lofty, so menacing, so formidable, for him neither vertigo, terror, of amazement.
To see them so under his hand, so easy to scale, one would have said that he had them. By of leaping, climbing, the of the he had become, in some sort, a monkey and a goat, like the Calabrian child who he walks, and plays with the sea while still a babe.
Moreover, it was not his alone which after the Cathedral, but his mind also. In what condition was that mind? What had it contracted, what had it that envelope, in that life? This it would be hard to determine. Quasimodo had been one-eyed, hunchbacked, lame. It was with great difficulty, and by of great patience that Claude Frollo had succeeded in teaching him to talk. But a was to the foundling. Bellringer of Notre-Dame at the age of fourteen, a new had come to complete his misfortunes: the had the of his ears; he had deaf. The only gate which nature had left wide open for him had been closed, and forever.
In closing, it had cut off the only of and of light which still its way into the of Quasimodo. His into night. The being’s as and as complete as his deformity. Let us add that his him to some dumb. For, in order not to make others laugh, the very moment that he himself to be deaf, he upon a which he only when he was alone. He that which Claude Frollo had taken so much pains to unloose. Hence, it came about, that when him to speak, his was torpid, awkward, and like a door have rusty.
If now we were to try to to the of Quasimodo through that thick, hard rind; if we the of that organism; if it were to us to look with a those non-transparent organs to the of that creature, to his corners, his no-thoroughfares, and to a light upon the at the of that cave, we should, no doubt, the Psyche in some poor, cramped, and attitude, like those the Leads of Venice, who old in a box which was too low and too for them.
It is that the mind in a body. Quasimodo was of a in his own image, moving him. The of objects a his mind. His brain was a medium; the ideas which passed through it distorted. The which resulted from this was, necessarily, and perverted.
Hence a thousand illusions, a thousand of judgment, a thousand deviations, in which his strayed, now mad, now idiotic.
The of this organization was to trouble the which he upon things. He any of them. The world much away to him than it to us.
The second of his was to him malicious.
He was malicious, in fact, he was savage; he was he was ugly. There was logic in his nature, as there is in ours.
His strength, so developed, was a of still malevolence: “Malus robustus,” says Hobbes.
This must, be to him. Malevolence was not, perhaps, in him. From his very steps among men, he had himself, later on he had himself, out, blasted, rejected. Human were, for him, always a or a malediction. As he up, he had nothing but around him. He had the malevolence. He had up the with which he had been wounded.
After all, he his men only with reluctance; his was for him. It was with marble figures,—kings, saints, bishops,—who at least did not out laughing in his face, and who upon him only with and kindliness. The other statues, those of the and demons, no for him, Quasimodo. He them too much for that. They rather, to be at other men. The were his friends, and him; the were his friends and him. So he long with them. He sometimes passed whole hours one of these statues, in with it. If any one came, he like a lover in his serenade.
And the was not only for him, but the universe, and all nature beside. He of no other than the painted windows, always in flower; no other than that of the of which spread out, with birds, in the of the Saxon capitals; of no other than the towers of the church; of no other than Paris, at their bases.
What he loved above all else in the edifice, that which his soul, and it open its wings, which it so in its cavern, that which sometimes him happy, was the bells. He loved them, them, talked to them, them. From the in the spire, over the of the and nave, to the great of the front, he a for them all. The and the two towers were to him as three great cages, birds, by himself, sang for him alone. Yet it was these very which had him deaf; but mothers often love best that child which has them the most suffering.
It is true that their voice was the only one which he still hear. On this score, the big was his beloved. It was she he out of all that family of noisy girls which above him, on days. This was named Marie. She was alone in the southern tower, with her sister Jacqueline, a of size, up in a smaller hers. This Jacqueline was so called from the name of the wife of Jean Montagu, who had it to the church, which had not his going and without his at Montfaucon. In the second tower there were six other bells, and, finally, six smaller ones the over the crossing, with the bell, which only after dinner on Good Friday and the of the day Easter. So Quasimodo had fifteen in his seraglio; but big Marie was his favorite.
No idea can be of his on days when the was sounded. At the moment when the him, and said, “Go!” he the of the clock tower than any one else have it. He entered perfectly into the of the great bell; he at her a moment, and lovingly; then he her and her with his hand, like a good horse, which is about to set out on a long journey. He her for the trouble that she was about to suffer. After these caresses, he to his assistants, in the of the tower, to begin. They the ropes, the wheel creaked, the of metal started slowly into motion. Quasimodo it with his and trembled. The of the and the the upon which it was quiver. Quasimodo with the bell.
“Vah!” he cried, with a of laughter. However, the movement of the was accelerated, and, in as it a angle, Quasimodo’s opened also more and more widely, and flaming. At length the began; the whole tower trembled; woodwork, leads, cut stones, all at once, from the of the to the of its summit. Then Quasimodo and frothed; he and came; he from to with the tower. The bell, furious, riot, presented to the two of the tower alternately its throat, that breath, which is away. Quasimodo himself in of this open throat; he and rose with the of the bell, in this breath, by at the place, which with people, two hundred him, and at that enormous, which came, second after second, to in his ear.
It was the only speech which he understood, the only which for him the silence. He out in it as a bird in the sun. All of a sudden, the of the upon him; his look extraordinary; he in wait for the great as it passed, as a in wait for a fly, and himself upon it, with might and main. Then, above the abyss, to and by the of the bell, he the by the ear-laps, pressed it knees, it on with his heels, and the of the with the whole and weight of his body. Meanwhile, the tower trembled; he and his teeth, his red rose erect, his like a bellows, his flames, the neighed, panting, him; and then it was no longer the great of Notre-Dame Quasimodo: it was a dream, a whirlwind, a tempest, of noise; a to a crupper, a centaur, man, bell; a of Astolphus, away upon a of bronze.
The presence of this being caused, as it were, a of life to the entire cathedral. It as though there from him, at least according to the of the crowd, a which all the of Notre-Dame, and the of the church to palpitate. It for people to know that he was there, to make them that they the thousand of the and the in motion. And the did a and his hand; it waited on his will to its great voice; it was and with Quasimodo, as with a familiar spirit. One would have said that he the breathe. He was about it; in fact, he himself on all points of the structure. Now one with at the very top of one of the towers, a climbing, writhing, on all fours, above the abyss, from to projection, and going to the of some gorgon; it was Quasimodo the crows. Again, in some of the church one came in with a of chimera, and scowling; it was Quasimodo in thought. Sometimes one sight, upon a tower, of an and a of at the end of a rope; it was Quasimodo or the Angelus. Often at night a was along the of lacework, which the towers and borders the of the apse; again it was the of Notre-Dame. Then, said the of the neighborhood, the whole church took on something fantastic, supernatural, horrible; and mouths were opened, here and there; one the dogs, the monsters, and the of stone, which keep watch night and day, with and open jaws, around the cathedral, barking. And, if it was a Christmas Eve, while the great bell, which to the death rattle, the to the midnight mass, such an air was spread over the façade that one would have that the portal was the throng, and that the rose window was it. And all this came from Quasimodo. Egypt would have taken him for the god of this temple; the Middle Ages him to be its demon: he was in its soul.
To such an was this that for those who know that Quasimodo has existed, Notre-Dame is to-day deserted, inanimate, dead. One that something has from it. That is empty; it is a skeleton; the has it, one sees its place and that is all. It is like a which still has for the eyes, but no longer sight.
