A PRIEST AND A PHILOSOPHER ARE TWO DIFFERENT THINGS.
The the girls had at the top of the North tower, over the Place and so to the of the gypsy, was, in fact, Archdeacon Claude Frollo.
Our readers have not the which the had for himself in that tower. (I do not know, by the way be it said, it be not the same, the of which can be to-day through a little square window, opening to the east at the of a man above the from which the towers spring; a and den, are here and there, at the present day, with some yellow the façades of cathedrals. I that this is by and spiders, and that, consequently, it a of on the flies).
Every day, an hour sunset, the the to the tower, and himself up in this cell, where he sometimes passed whole nights. That day, at the moment when, the low door of his retreat, he was into the lock the little key which he always about him in the to his side, a of and had his ear. These came from the Place du Parvis. The cell, as we have already said, had only one window opening upon the of the church. Claude Frollo had the key, and an later, he was on the top of the tower, in the and in which the had him.
There he stood, grave, motionless, in one look and one thought. All Paris at his feet, with the thousand of its and its of hills—with its river under its bridges, and its people moving to and through its streets,—with the clouds of its smoke,—with the of its which Notre-Dame in its folds; but out of all the city, the at one only of the pavement, the Place du Parvis; in all that at but one figure,—the gypsy.
It would have been difficult to say what was the nature of this look, and the that from it. It was a gaze, which was, nevertheless, full of trouble and tumult. And, from the of his whole body, at by an shiver, as a tree is moved by the wind; from the of his elbows, more marble than the on which they leaned; or the of the which his face,—one would have said that nothing was left about Claude Frollo his eyes.
The was dancing; she was her on the of her finger, and it into the air as she Provençal sarabands; agile, light, joyous, and of the which upon her head.
The was around her; from time to time, a man in red and yellow them into a circle, and then returned, seated himself on a chair a from the dancer, and took the goat’s on his knees. This man to be the gypsy’s companion. Claude Frollo not his from his post.
From the moment when the of this stranger, his attention him and the dancer, and his more and more gloomy. All at once he rose upright, and a ran through his whole body: “Who is that man?” he his teeth: “I have always her alone before!”
Then he the of the staircase, and once more descended. As he passed the door of the chamber, which was ajar, he saw something which him; he Quasimodo, who, through an opening of one of those which blinds, appeared also to be at the Place. He was in so a contemplation, that he did not notice the passage of his father. His had a expression; it was a charmed, look. “This is strange!” Claude. “Is it the at he is thus gazing?” He his descent. At the end of a minutes, the entered upon the Place from the door at the of the tower.
“What has of the girl?” he said, with the group of which the of the had collected.
“I know not,” one of his neighbors, “I think that she has gone to make some of her in the house opposite, they have called her.”
In the place of the gypsy, on the carpet, had to but a moment by the of her dance, the no longer any one but the red and yellow man, who, in order to earn a in his turn, was walking the circle, with his on his hips, his back, his red, his outstretched, with a chair his teeth. To the chair he had a cat, which a neighbor had lent, and which was in great affright.
“Notre-Dame!” the archdeacon, at the moment when the juggler, heavily, passed in of him with his of chair and his cat, “What is Master Pierre Gringoire doing here?”
The voice of the the into such a that he his equilibrium, together with his whole edifice, and the chair and the cat pell-mell upon the of the spectators, in the of hootings.
It is that Master Pierre Gringoire (for it was he) would have had a sorry account to settle with the neighbor who owned the cat, and all the and which him, if he had not to profit by the to take in the church, Claude Frollo had him a to him.
The was already dark and deserted; the side-aisles were full of shadows, and the of the to out like stars, so black had the become. Only the great rose window of the façade, thousand colors were in a of sunlight, in the like a of diamonds, and its to the other end of the nave.
When they had a paces, Dom Claude his against a pillar, and at Gringoire. The was not the one which Gringoire feared, as he was of having been by a and learned person in the of a buffoon. There was nothing or in the priest’s glance, it was serious, tranquil, piercing. The was the to the silence.
“Come now, Master Pierre. You are to many to me. And of all, how comes it that you have not been for two months, and that now one you in the public squares, in a in truth! Motley red and yellow, like a Caudebec apple?”
“Messire,” said Gringoire, piteously, “it is, in fact, an accoutrement. You see me no more in it than a cat with a calabash. ’Tis very done, I am conscious, to the of the watch to the of this the of a Pythagorean philosopher. But what would you have, my master? ’tis the fault of my jerkin, which me in wise, at the of the winter, under the that it was into tatters, and that it in the of a rag-picker. What is one to do? Civilization has not yet at the point where one can go naked, as Diogenes wished. Add that a very cold wind was blowing, and ’tis not in the month of January that one can attempt to make take this new step. This presented itself, I took it, and I left my black smock, which, for a like myself, was from being closed. Behold me then, in the of a stage-player, like Saint Genest. What would you have? ’tis an eclipse. Apollo himself the of Admetus.”
“’Tis a that you are in!” the archdeacon.
“I agree, my master, that ’tis to and poetize, to the in the furnace, or to it from cats on a shield. So, when you me, I was as as an a turnspit. But what would you have, messire? One must eat every day, and the Alexandrine are not a of Brie cheese. Now, I for Madame Marguerite of Flanders, that famous epithalamium, as you know, and the city will not pay me, under the that it was not excellent; as though one give a of Sophocles for four crowns! Hence, I was on the point of with hunger. Happily, I that I was in the jaw; so I said to this jaw,—perform some of and of equilibrium: thyself. Ale te ipsam. A pack of who have my good friends, have me twenty of feats, and now I give to my teeth every the which they have the day by the of my brow. After all, concedo, I that it is a sad for my faculties, and that man is not to pass his life in the and chairs. But, master, it is not to pass one’s life, one must earn the means for life.”
Dom Claude in silence. All at once his deep-set so and an expression, that Gringoire himself, so to speak, to the of the by that glance.
“Very good, Master Pierre; but how comes it that you are now in company with that dancer?”
“In faith!” said Gringoire, “’tis she is my wife and I am her husband.”
The priest’s into flame.
“Have you done that, you wretch!” he cried, Gringoire’s arm with fury; “have you been so by God as to your hand against that girl?”
“On my of paradise, monseigneur,” Gringoire, in every limb, “I to you that I have touched her, if that is what you.”
“Then why do you talk of husband and wife?” said the priest. Gringoire to relate to him as as possible, all that the reader already knows, his in the Court of Miracles and the broken-crock marriage. It appeared, moreover, that this marriage had to no results whatever, and that each the girl him of his right as on the day. “’Tis a mortification,” he said in conclusion, “but that is I have had the to a virgin.”
“What do you mean?” the archdeacon, who had been by this recital.
“’Tis very difficult to explain,” the poet. “It is a superstition. My wife is, according to what an old thief, who is called among us the Duke of Egypt, has told me, a or a child, which is the same thing. She on her an which, it is affirmed, will her to meet her some day, but which will its if the girl hers. Hence it that of us very virtuous.”
“So,” Claude, more and more, “you believe, Master Pierre, that this has not been approached by any man?”
“What would you have a man do, Dom Claude, as against a superstition? She has got that in her head. I as a this which is those Bohemian girls who are so easily into subjection. But she has three to protect her: the Duke of Egypt, who has taken her under his safeguard, reckoning, perchance, on selling her to some abbé; all his tribe, who her in veneration, like a Notre-Dame; and a poignard, which the always about her, in some nook, in of the of the provost, and which one to out into her hands by her waist. ’Tis a proud wasp, I can tell you!”
The pressed Gringoire with questions.
La Esmeralda, in the of Gringoire, was an and creature, pretty, with the of a which was to her; a naïve and damsel, of and about everything; not yet aware of the a man and a woman, in her dreams; like that; wild over dancing, noise, the open air; a of woman bee, with on her feet, and in a whirlwind. She this nature to the life which she had always led. Gringoire had succeeded in learning that, while a child, she had Spain and Catalonia, to Sicily; he that she had been taken by the of Zingari, of which she a part, to the of Algiers, a country in Achaia, which country adjoins, on one Albania and Greece; on the other, the Sicilian Sea, which is the road to Constantinople. The Bohemians, said Gringoire, were of the King of Algiers, in his quality of of the White Moors. One thing is certain, that la Esmeralda had come to France while still very young, by way of Hungary. From all these the girl had of jargons, songs, and ideas, which her language as as her costume, Parisian, African. However, the people of the which she loved her for her gayety, her daintiness, her manners, her dances, and her songs. She herself to be hated, in all the city, by but two persons, of she often spoke in terror: the of the Tour-Roland, a who some against these gypsies, and who the dancer every time that the passed her window; and a priest, who met her without at her looks and which her.
The mention of this last the greatly, though Gringoire paid no attention to his perturbation; to such an had two months to the to the of the on which he had met the gypsy, and the presence of the in it all. Otherwise, the little dancer nothing; she did not tell fortunes, which protected her against those for magic which were so against women. And then, Gringoire the position of her brother, if not of her husband. After all, the this of marriage very patiently. It meant a and at least. Every morning, he set out from the of the thieves, with the gypsy; he helped her make her of targes[34] and little blanks[35] in the squares; each he returned to the same with her, allowed her to herself into her little chamber, and slept the sleep of the just. A very sweet existence, taking it all in all, he said, and well to revery. And then, on his and conscience, the was not very sure that he was in love with the gypsy. He loved her almost as dearly. It was a animal, gentle, intelligent, clever; a learned goat. Nothing was more common in the Middle Ages than these learned animals, which people greatly, and often their to the stake. But the of the with the was a very of magic. Gringoire them to the archdeacon, these to deeply. In the majority of cases, it was to present the to the in such or such a manner, in order to obtain from him the desired. He had been to this by the gypsy, who possessed, in these arts, so a that two months had to teach the to write, with letters, the word “Phœbus.”
“‘Phœbus!’” said the priest; “why ‘Phœbus’?”
“I know not,” Gringoire. “Perhaps it is a word which she to be with some magic and virtue. She often it in a low when she thinks that she is alone.”
“Are you sure,” Claude, with his glance, “that it is only a word and not a name?”
“The name of whom?” said the poet.
“How should I know?” said the priest.
“This is what I imagine, messire. These Bohemians are something like Guebrs, and the sun. Hence, Phœbus.”
“That not so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre.”
“After all, that not me. Let her her Phœbus at her pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he her.”
“Who is Djali?”
“The goat.”
The his into his hand, and appeared to for a moment. All at once he to Gringoire once more.
“And do you to me that you have not touched her?”
“Whom?” said Gringoire; “the goat?”
“No, that woman.”
“My wife? I to you that I have not.”
“You are often alone with her?”
“A good hour every evening.”
Dom Claude frowned.
“Oh! oh! Solus Pater Noster.”
“Upon my soul, I say the Pater, and the Ave Maria, and the Credo in Deum without her paying any more attention to me than a chicken to a church.”
“Swear to me, by the of your mother,” the violently, “that you have not touched that with the of your finger.”
“I will also it by the of my father, for the two have more them. But, my master, permit me a question in my turn.”
“Speak, sir.”
“What is it of yours?”
The archdeacon’s as as the of a girl. He for a moment without answering; then, with visible embarrassment,—
“Listen, Master Pierre Gringoire. You are not yet damned, so as I know. I take an in you, and wish you well. Now the least with that Egyptian of the would make you the of Satan. You know that ’tis always the which the soul. Woe to you if you approach that woman! That is all.”
“I once,” said Gringoire, his ear; “it was the day: but I got stung.”
“You were so audacious, Master Pierre?” and the priest’s over again.
“On another occasion,” the poet, with a smile, “I through the keyhole, going to bed, and I the most in her shift that a under her foot.”
“Go to the devil!” the priest, with a terrible look; and, the Gringoire a push on the shoulders, he plunged, with long strides, under the of the cathedral.
