THE BELLS.
After the in the pillory, the neighbors of Notre-Dame they noticed that Quasimodo’s for had cool. Formerly, there had been for every occasion, long serenades, which from to compline; from the for a high mass, rich over the smaller for a wedding, for a christening, and in the air like a rich of all of sounds. The old church, all and sonorous, was in a of bells. One was of the presence of a of noise and caprice, who sang through all those mouths of brass. Now that to have departed; the gloomy, and silent; and had the peal, and bare, by the ritual, nothing more. Of the noise which a church, the organ within, the without, the organ alone remained. One would have said that there was no longer a in the belfry. Quasimodo was always there, nevertheless; what, then, had to him? Was it that the and of the still in the of his heart, that the of his tormentor’s in his soul, and that the of such had in him his for the bells? or was it that Marie had a in the of the of Notre-Dame, and that the great and her fourteen sisters were neglected for something more and more beautiful?
It that, in the year of 1482, Annunciation Day on Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of March. That day the air was so pure and light that Quasimodo some returning for his bells. He therefore the northern tower while the was opening wide the doors of the church, which were then panels of wood, with leather, with of iron, and in “very elaborated.”
On in the chamber, Quasimodo for some time at the six and his sadly, as though over some which had itself in his them and him. But when he had set them to swinging, when he that of moving under his hand, when he saw, for he did not it, the and that scale, like a bird from branch to branch; when the Music, that who a of strette, and arpeggios, had taken of the man, he happy once more, he everything, and his expanding, his beam.
He and came, he his hands together, he ran from rope to rope, he the six singers with voice and gesture, like the leader of an who is on musicians.
“Go on,” said he, “go on, go on, Gabrielle, out all noise into the Place, ’tis a to-day. No laziness, Thibauld; art relaxing; go on, go on, then, art rusted, sluggard? That is well! quick! quick! let not be seen! Make them all like me. That’s it, Thibauld, done! Guillaume! Guillaume! art the largest, and Pasquier is the smallest, and Pasquier best. Let us that those who him will him than they thee. Good! good! my Gabrielle, stoutly, more stoutly! Eli! what are you doing up there, you two Moineaux (sparrows)? I do not see you making the least little of noise. What is the meaning of those of copper which to be when they should sing? Come, work now, ’tis the Feast of the Annunciation. The sun is fine, the must be also. Poor Guillaume! art all out of breath, my big fellow!”
He was in on his bells, all six of which with each other in and their haunches, like a noisy team of Spanish mules, on here and there by the of the muleteer.
All at once, on his the large which the of the tower at a height, he on the square a girl, dressed, stop, spread out on the ground a carpet, on which a small took up its post, and a group of around her. This the of his ideas, and his as a of air melted rosin. He halted, his to the bells, and the of slate, upon the dancer that dreamy, sweet, and look which had already the on one occasion. Meanwhile, the died away and all together, to the great of the lovers of ringing, who were in good to the from above the Pont du Change, and who away dumbfounded, like a dog who has been offered a and a stone.
