A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATER.
These were, so to speak, the point of of two scenes, which had, up to that time, been in lines at the same moment, each on its particular theatre; one, that which the reader has just perused, in the Rat-Hole; the other, which he is about to read, on the of the pillory. The had for only the three with the reader has just acquaintance; the second had for all the public which we have above, on the Place de Grève, around the and the gibbet.
That which the four posted at nine o’clock in the at the four of the had with the of some of an execution, no doubt, not a hanging, but a whipping, a of ears, something, in short,—that had so that the four policemen, too closely besieged, had had occasion to “press” it, as the then ran, more than once, by of their whips, and the of their horses.
This populace, to waiting for public executions, did not very much impatience. It itself with the pillory, a very of monument, of a of about six high and in the interior. A very staircase, of stone, which was called by “the ladder,” to the upper platform, upon which was visible a wheel of solid oak. The was upon this wheel, on his knees, with his hands his back. A shaft, which set in motion a in the of the little edifice, a motion to the wheel, which always its position, and in this manner presented the of the man to all of the square in succession. This was what was called “turning” a criminal.
As the reader perceives, the of the Grève was from all the of the of the Halles. Nothing architectural, nothing monumental. No to the iron cross, no lantern, no frail, out on the of the into of and flowers, no of and monsters, on woodwork, no sculpture, in the stone.
They were to themselves with those four of work, with sandstone, and a gibbet, and bare, on one side.
The would have been but a one for lovers of Gothic architecture. It is true that nothing was less on the score of than the of the Middle Ages, and that they very little for the of a pillory.
The arrived, to the of a cart, and when he had been upon the platform, where he be from all points of the Place, with and upon the wheel of the pillory, a hoot, with and acclamations, upon the Place. They had Quasimodo.
It was he, in fact. The was singular. Pilloried on the very place where, on the day before, he had been saluted, acclaimed, and Pope and Prince of Fools, in the cortège of the Duke of Egypt, the King of Thunes, and the Emperor of Galilee! One thing is certain, and that is, that there was not a in the crowd, not himself, though in turn and the sufferer, who set this in his thought. Gringoire and his were missing at this spectacle.
Soon Michel Noiret, to the king, our lord, on the louts, and the sentence, in with the order and of the provost. Then he the cart, with his men in surcoats.
Quasimodo, impassible, did not wince. All had been to him by what was then called, in the of the chancellery, “the and of the bonds” which means that the and cut into his flesh; moreover, it is a of and wardens, which has not been lost, and which the still among us, a civilized, gentle, people (the and the in parentheses).
He had allowed himself to be led, pushed, carried, lifted, bound, and again. Nothing was to be upon his but the of a or an idiot. He was to be deaf; one might have him to be blind.
They him on his on the plank; he no resistance. They his shirt and as as his girdle; he allowed them to have their way. They him under a fresh of and buckles; he allowed them to and him. Only from time to time he noisily, like a is and over the of a butcher’s cart.
“The dolt,” said Jehan Frollo of the Mill, to his friend Robin Poussepain (for the two students had the culprit, as was to have been expected), “he no more than a up in a box!”
There was wild among the when they Quasimodo’s hump, his camel’s breast, his and bare. During this gayety, a man in the of the city, of and of mien, the and himself near the victim. His name among the spectators. It was Master Pierrat Torterue, official to the Châtelet.
He by on an of the a black hour-glass, the upper of which was with red sand, which it allowed to into the receptacle; then he his parti-colored surtout, and there visible, from his right hand, a thin and of long, white, shining, knotted, thongs, with metal nails. With his left hand, he his shirt around his right arm, to the very armpit.
In the meantime, Jehan Frollo, his above the (he had upon the of Robin Poussepain for the purpose), shouted: “Come and look, ladies and men! they are going to Master Quasimodo, the of my brother, the of Josas, a of architecture, who has a like a dome, and like columns!”
And the into a laugh, the boys and girls.
At length the his foot. The wheel to turn. Quasimodo his bonds. The which was upon his the of to around him.
All at once, at the moment when the wheel in its presented to Master Pierrat, the of Quasimodo, Master Pierrat his arm; the through the air, like a of adders, and with upon the wretch’s shoulders.
Quasimodo as though with a start. He to understand. He in his bonds; a of and pain the of his face, but he not a single sigh. He his backward, to the right, then to the left, it as a who has been in the by a gadfly.
A second the first, then a third, and another and another, and still others. The wheel did not to turn, the to rain down.
Soon the blood forth, and be in a thousand the hunchback’s black shoulders; and the thongs, in their motion which rent the air, of it upon the crowd.
Quasimodo had resumed, to all appearance, his imperturbability. He had at tried, in a way and without much movement, to his bonds. His had been to light up, his to stiffen, his members to their force, and the to stretch. The was powerful, prodigious, desperate; but the provost’s resisted. They cracked, and that was all. Quasimodo exhausted. Amazement gave way, on his features, to a of and discouragement. He closed his single eye, allowed his to upon his breast, and death.
From that moment forth, he no more. Nothing a movement from him. Neither his blood, which did not to flow, the which in fury, the of the torturer, who himself and with the execution, the of the thongs, more and than the of scorpions.
At length a from the Châtelet in black, on a black horse, who had been the since the of the execution, his the hour-glass. The stopped. The wheel stopped. Quasimodo’s opened slowly.
The was finished. Two of the official the of the patient, them with some which closed all the wounds, and upon his a of yellow vestment, in cut like a chasuble. In the meanwhile, Pierrat Torterue allowed the thongs, red and with blood, to upon the pavement.
All was not over for Quasimodo. He had still to that hour of which Master Florian Barbedienne had so added to the of Messire Robert d’Estouteville; all to the of the old and play upon of Jean de Cumène, Surdus absurdus: a man is absurd.
So the hour-glass was over once more, and they left the to the plank, in order that might be to the very end.
The populace, in the Middle Ages, is in what the child is in the family. As long as it in its of ignorance, of and minority, it can be said of it as of the child,—
’Tis the age.
We have already that Quasimodo was hated, for more than one good reason, it is true. There was a in that who had not or who did not that he had to complain of the of Notre-Dame. The at him appear thus in the had been universal; and the which he had just suffered, and the condition in which it had left him, from the had its more by it with a touch of mirth.
Hence, the “public prosecution” satisfied, as the of the law still it in their jargon, the turn came of a thousand private vengeances. Here, as in the Grand Hall, the themselves particularly prominent. All some against him, some for his malice, others for his ugliness. The were the most furious.
“Oh! of Antichrist!” said one.
“Rider on a handle!” another.
“What a grimace,” a third, “and who would make him Pope of the Fools if to-day were yesterday?”
“’Tis well,” in an old woman. “This is the of the pillory. When shall we have that of the gibbet?”
“When will you be with your big a hundred under ground, bellringer?”
“But ’tis the who the Angelus!”
“Oh! the man! the one-eyed creature! the hunch-back! the monster!”
“A to make a woman than all the and medicines!”
And the two scholars, Jehan du Moulin, and Robin Poussepain, sang at the top of their lungs, the refrain,—
“Une hart
Pour le pendard!
Un fagot
Pour le magot!”[33]
A thousand other upon him, and and imprecations, and laughter, and now and then, stones.
Quasimodo was but his was clear, and the public was no less on their than in their words. Moreover, the from the the of laughter.
At he his ground. But little by little that patience which had up under the of the torturer, and gave way all these of insects. The of the Asturias who has been but little moved by the of the with the dogs and banderilleras.
He around a slow of upon the crowd. But as he was, his was powerless to drive away those which were his wound. Then he moved in his bonds, and his the wheel of the on its axle. All this only the and hooting.
Then the man, unable to his collar, like that of a wild beast, once more; only at a of the of his chest. There was neither on his face. He was too from the of society, and too near the of nature to know what was. Moreover, with such a of deformity, is a thing that can be felt? But wrath, hatred, despair, slowly over that a cloud which more and more sombre, more and more with electricity, which in a thousand from the of the cyclops.
Nevertheless, that cloud away for a moment, at the passage of a which the crowd, a priest. As away as he see that and that priest, the victim’s gentler. The which had it was by a full of sweetness, gentleness, and tenderness. In as the approached, that more clear, more distinct, more radiant. It was like the of a Saviour, which the man was greeting. But as soon as the was near to the to allow of its the victim, the his eyes, a retreat, on rigorously, as though in to himself of appeals, and not at all of being and by a in such a predicament.
This was Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.
The cloud more than upon Quasimodo’s brow. The was still with it for a time, but was bitter, discouraged, sad.
Time passed on. He had been there at least an hour and a half, lacerated, maltreated, incessantly, and almost stoned.
All at once he moved again in his with despair, which the whole that him tremble, and, the which he had hitherto, he in a and voice, which a than a cry, and which was in the noise of the hoots—“Drink!”
This of distress, from compassion, only added to the good Parisian who the ladder, and who, it must be confessed, taken in the and as a multitude, was then no less and than that of among we have already the reader, and which was the of the populace. Not a voice was around the victim, to at his thirst. It is that at that moment he was more and than pitiable, with his and dripping, his wild, his mouth with and pain, and his out. It must also be that if a of a or bourgeoise, in the rabble, had to a of water to that in torment, there around the steps of the such a of and ignominy, that it would have to the good Samaritan.
At the of a moments, Quasimodo a upon the crowd, and in a voice still more heartrending: “Drink!”
And all to laugh.
“Drink this!” Robin Poussepain, in his a which had been in the gutter. “There, you villain, I’m your debtor.”
A woman a at his head,—
“That will teach you to wake us up at night with your of a soul.”
“He, good, my son!” a cripple, making an to him with his crutch, “will you any more on us from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame?”
“Here’s a cup!” in a man, a at his breast. “’Twas you that my wife, she passed near you, give birth to a child with two heads!”
“And my cat a with six paws!” an old crone, a at him.
“Drink!” Quasimodo panting, and for the third time.
At that moment he the give way. A girl, dressed, from the throng. She was by a little white with horns, and a in her hand.
Quasimodo’s sparkled. It was the he had to off on the night, a for which he was that he was being at that very moment; which was not in the least the case, since he was being only for the of being deaf, and of having been by a man. He not that she had come to her also, and to her like the rest.
He her, in fact, the rapidly. Wrath and him. He would have liked to make the into ruins, and if the of his have death, the would have been to she the platform.
She approached, without a syllable, the who in a to her, and a from her girdle, she it to the of the man.
Then, from that which had been, up to that moment, so and burning, a big tear was to fall, and roll slowly that so long with despair. It was the first, in all probability, that the man had shed.
Meanwhile, he had to drink. The her little pout, from impatience, and pressed the to the month of Quasimodo, with a smile.
He with draughts. His thirst was burning.
When he had finished, the his black lips, no doubt, with the object of the hand which had just him. But the girl, who was, perhaps, distrustful, and who the attempt of the night, her hand with the of a child who is of being by a beast.
Then the man on her a look full of and sadness.
It would have been a anywhere,—this beautiful, fresh, pure, and girl, who was at the same time so weak, thus to the of so much misery, deformity, and malevolence. On the pillory, the was sublime.
The very were by it, and to clap their hands, crying,—
“Noël! Noël!”
It was at that moment that the sight, from the window of her bole, of the on the pillory, and at her her imprecation,—
“Accursed be thou, of Egypt! Accursed! accursed!”
