LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA—LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE WHO ENTER HERE.
In the Middle Ages, when an was complete, there was almost as much of it in the earth as above it. Unless upon piles, like Notre-Dame, a palace, a fortress, a church, had always a bottom. In cathedrals, it was, in some sort, another cathedral, low, dark, mysterious, blind, and mute, under the upper which was overflowing with light and with organs and day and night. Sometimes it was a sepulchre. In palaces, in fortresses, it was a prison, sometimes a also, sometimes together. These buildings, mode of and we have explained, had not foundations, but, so to speak, which ran through the in chambers, galleries, and staircases, like the above. Thus churches, palaces, fortresses, had the earth way up their bodies. The of an another edifice, into which one of ascending, and which its under the of the monument, like those and which are in the mirror-like of a lake, the and of the banks.
At the of Saint-Antoine, at the Palais de Justice of Paris, at the Louvre, these were prisons. The of these prisons, as they into the soil, and more gloomy. They were so many zones, where the of were graduated. Dante anything for his hell. These of in a of a dungeon, with a vat-like bottom, where Dante Satan, where those to death. A existence, once there; light, air, life, speranza—every hope; it only came to the or the stake. Sometimes it there; called this forgetting. Between men and himself, the man a of and upon his head; and the entire prison, the was nothing more than an enormous, lock, which him off from the of the world.
It was in a of this description, in the by Saint-Louis, in the of the Tournelle, that la Esmeralda had been on being to death, through of her escape, no doubt, with the court-house over her head. Poor fly, who not have one of its of stone!
Assuredly, Providence and had been unjust; such an of and of was not necessary to so a creature.
There she lay, in the shadows, buried, hidden, immured. Any one who have her in this state, after having her laugh and in the sun, would have shuddered. Cold as night, cold as death, not a of air in her tresses, not a in her ear, no longer a of light in her eyes; in twain, with chains, a and a loaf, on a little straw, in a of water, which was under her by the of the prison walls; without motion, almost without breath, she had no longer the power to suffer; Phœbus, the sun, midday, the open air, the of Paris, the with applause, the sweet of love with the officer; then the priest, the old crone, the poignard, the blood, the torture, the gibbet; all this did, indeed, pass her mind, sometimes as a and vision, sometimes as a nightmare; but it was no longer anything but a and struggle, in the gloom, or music played up above ground, and which was no longer at the where the girl had fallen.
Since she had been there, she had neither slept. In that misfortune, in that cell, she no longer her hours from slumber, from reality, any more than day from night. All this was mixed, broken, floating, in her thought. She no longer felt, she no longer knew, she no longer thought; at the most, she only dreamed. Never had a been more into nothingness.
Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, she had noticed on two or three occasions, the of a opening above her, without the passage of a little light, and through which a hand had her a of black bread. Nevertheless, this visit of the was the which was left her with mankind.
A single thing still her ear; above her head, the was through the of the vault, and a of water from them at regular intervals. She to the noise by this of water as it into the her.
This of water from time to time into that pool, was the only movement which still on around her, the only clock which marked the time, the only noise which her of all the noise on the surface of the earth.
To tell the whole, however, she also felt, from time to time, in that of and darkness, something cold over her or her arm, and she shuddered.
How long had she been there? She did not know. She had a of a of death somewhere, against some one, then of having been herself away, and of up in and silence, to the heart. She had herself along on her hands. Then iron that cut her ankles, and had rattled. She had the that all around her was wall, that her there was a with and a of straw; but neither lamp air-hole. Then she had seated herself on that and, sometimes, for the of her attitude, on the last step in her dungeon. For a while she had to count the black minutes off for her by the of water; but that labor of an brain had off of itself in her head, and had left her in stupor.
At length, one day, or one night, (for midnight and were of the same color in that sepulchre), she above her a louder noise than was by the when he her and of water. She her head, and a of light through the in the of in the of the inpace.
At the same time, the lock creaked, the on its hinges, turned, and she a lantern, a hand, and the of the of two men, the door being too low to admit of her their heads. The light her so that she her eyes.
When she opened them again the door was closed, the was deposited on one of the steps of the staircase; a man alone her. A monk’s black to his feet, a of the same color his face. Nothing was visible of his person, neither hands. It was a long, black erect, and which something be moving. She for minutes at this of spectre. But neither he she spoke. One would have them two each other. Two only alive in that cavern; the of the lantern, which on account of the of the atmosphere, and the of water from the roof, which cut this with its splash, and the light of the in on the water of the pool.
At last the the silence.
“Who are you?”
“A priest.”
The words, the accent, the of his voice her tremble.
The continued, in a voice,—
“Are you prepared?”
“For what?”
“To die.”
“Oh!” said she, “will it be soon?”
“To-morrow.”
Her head, which had been with joy, upon her breast.
“’Tis very away yet!” she murmured; “why they not have done it to-day?”
“Then you are very unhappy?” asked the priest, after a silence.
“I am very cold,” she replied.
She took her in her hands, a with who are cold, as we have already in the case of the of the Tour-Roland, and her teeth chattered.
The appeared to his around the from his cowl.
“Without light! without fire! in the water! it is horrible!”
“Yes,” she replied, with the air which had her. “The day to every one, why do they give me only night?”
“Do you know,” the priest, after a fresh silence, “why you are here?”
“I I once,” she said, her thin over her eyelids, as though to her memory, “but I know no longer.”
All at once she to like a child.
“I should like to away from here, sir. I am cold, I am afraid, and there are which over my body.”
“Well, me.”
So saying, the took her arm. The girl was to her very soul. Yet that hand produced an of cold upon her.
“Oh!” she murmured, “’tis the hand of death. Who are you?”
The his cowl; she looked. It was the which had so long her; that demon’s which had appeared at la Falourdel’s, above the of her Phœbus; that which she last had a dagger.
This apparition, always so for her, and which had thus her on from to misfortune, to torture, her from her stupor. It to her that the of which had thick upon her memory was rent away. All the of her adventure, from the at la Falourdel’s to her to the Tournelle, to her memory, no longer and as heretofore, but distinct, harsh, clear, palpitating, terrible. These souvenirs, and almost by of suffering, were by the which her, as the approach of fire upon white paper with ink, to start out perfectly fresh. It to her that all the of her opened and simultaneously.
“Hah!” she cried, with her hands on her eyes, and a trembling, “’tis the priest!”
Then she her arms in discouragement, and seated, with head, on the ground, mute and still trembling.
The at her with the of a which has long been in a circle from the of over a in the wheat, and has long been the circles of his flight, and has upon his like a of lightning, and it in his talons.
She to in a low voice,—
“Finish! finish! the last blow!” and she her in terror her shoulders, like the the of the butcher’s axe.
“So I you with horror?” he said at length.
She no reply.
“Do I you with horror?” he repeated.
Her contracted, as though with a smile.
“Yes,” said she, “the at the condemned. Here he has been me, me, me for months! Had it not been for him, my God, how happy it should have been! It was he who me into this abyss! Oh heavens! it was he who killed him! my Phœbus!”
Here, into sobs, and her to the priest,—
“Oh! wretch, who are you? What have I done to you? Do you then, me so? Alas! what have you against me?”
“I love thee!” the priest.
Her ceased, she at him with the look of an idiot. He had on his and was her with of flame.
“Dost understand? I love thee!” he again.
“What love!” said the girl with a shudder.
He resumed,—
“The love of a soul.”
Both for minutes, the weight of their emotions; he maddened, she stupefied.
“Listen,” said the at last, and a had come over him; “you shall know all I am about to tell you that which I have to say to myself, when my at those hours of the night when it is so dark that it as though God no longer saw us. Listen. Before I you, girl, I was happy.”
“So was I!” she feebly.
“Do not me. Yes, I was happy, at least I myself to be so. I was pure, my was with light. No was more proudly and more than mine. Priests me on chastity; doctors, on doctrines. Yes, science was all in all to me; it was a sister to me, and a sister sufficed. Not but that with age other ideas came to me. More than once my had been moved as a woman’s passed by. That of and blood which, in the of youth, I had that I had had, more than once, the of iron which me, a wretch, to the cold of the altar. But fasting, prayer, study, the of the cloister, my of my once more, and then I women. Moreover, I had but to open a book, and all the of my brain the of science. In a moments, I the of earth away, and I myself once more calm, quieted, and serene, in the presence of the of truth. As long as the sent to attack me only of who passed occasionally my in church, in the streets, in the fields, and who to my dreams, I easily him. Alas! if the victory has not with me, it is the fault of God, who has not man and the of equal force. Listen. One day—”
Here the paused, and the of from his with a of the death rattle.
He resumed,—
“One day I was on the window of my cell. What book was I reading then? Oh! all that is a in my head. I was reading. The window opened upon a Square. I a of and music. Annoyed at being thus in my revery, I into the Square. What I beheld, others saw myself, and yet it was not a for eyes. There, in the middle of the pavement,—it was midday, the sun was brightly,—a was dancing. A so that God would have her to the Virgin and have her for his mother and have to be of her if she had been in when he was man! Her were black and splendid; in the of her black locks, some through which the sun like of gold. Her in their movements like the of a wheel. Around her head, in her black tresses, there were of metal, which in the sun, and a of on her brow. Her dress thick set with spangles, blue, and with a thousand sparks, like a night. Her brown, arms and around her waist, like two scarfs. The of her was beautiful. Oh! what a out, like something in the sunlight! Alas, girl, it was thou! Surprised, intoxicated, charmed, I allowed myself to upon thee. I looked so long that I with terror; I that was of me.”
The paused for a moment, overcome with emotion. Then he continued,—
“Already fascinated, I to fast to something and myself from falling. I the which Satan had already set for me. The my that which can come only from or hell. It was no girl with a little of our earth, and by the of a woman’s soul. It was an angel! but of and flame, and not of light. At the moment when I was thus, I you a goat, a of witches, which as it at me. The sun gave him horns. Then I the of the demon, and I no longer that you had come from and that you had come for my perdition. I it.”
Here the looked the full in the face, and added, coldly,—
“I it still. Nevertheless, the little by little; your dancing through my brain; I the spell me. All that should have was to sleep; and like those who die in the snow, I in this sleep to on. All at once, you to sing. What I do, wretch? Your song was still more than your dancing. I to flee. Impossible. I was nailed, to the spot. It to me that the marble of the had to my knees. I was to until the end. My were like ice, my was on fire. At last you took on me, you to sing, you disappeared. The of the vision, the of the music by from my and my ears. Then I into the of the window, more rigid, more than a from its base. The me. I myself up; I fled; but alas! something me had to again, something had come upon me from which I not flee.”
He another pause and on,—
“Yes, from that day, there was me a man I did not know. I to make use of all my remedies. The cloister, the altar, work, books,—follies! Oh, how science when one in against it a full of passions! Do you know, girl, what I saw my book and me? You, your shade, the image of the which had one day the space me. But this image had no longer the same color; it was sombre, funereal, as the black circle which long the of the man who has at the sun.
“Unable to myself of it, since I your song in my head, your dancing always on my breviary, at night, in my dreams, your in with my own, I to see you again, to touch you, to know who you were, to see I should you like the image which I had of you, to my dream, perchance, with reality. At all events, I that a new would the first, and the had insupportable. I you. I saw you once more. Calamity! When I had you twice, I wanted to see you a thousand times, I wanted to see you always. Then—how stop myself on that of hell?—then I no longer to myself. The other end of the which the had to my he had to his foot. I and like yourself. I waited for you under porches, I on the for you at the corners, I for you from the of my tower. Every I returned to myself more charmed, more despairing, more bewitched, more lost!
“I had learned who you were; an Egyptian, Bohemian, gypsy, zingara. How I the magic? Listen. I that a trial would free me from the charm. A Bruno d’Ast; he had her burned, and was cured. I it. I wanted to try the remedy. First I to have you the square in of Notre-Dame, to you if you returned no more. You paid no to it. You returned. Then the idea of you to me. One night I the attempt. There were two of us. We already had you in our power, when that officer came up. He delivered you. Thus did he your unhappiness, mine, and his own. Finally, no longer what to do, and what was to of me, I you to the official.
“I that I should be like Bruno d’Ast. I also had a idea that a trial would deliver you into my hands; that, as a I should you, I should have you; that there you not from me; that you had already me a long time to give me the right to you in my turn. When one wrong, one must do it thoroughly. ’Tis to in the monstrous! The of has its of joy. A and a can in upon the of in a dungeon!
“Accordingly, I you. It was then that I you when we met. The plot which I was against you, the which I was up above your head, from me in and glances. Still, I hesitated. My project had its terrible which me back.
“Perhaps I might have it; my would have in my brain, without fruit. I that it would always upon me to up or this prosecution. But every is inexorable, and on a deed; but where I myself to be all powerful, was more powerful than I. Alas! ’tis which has you and delivered you to the terrible of the machine which I had doubly. Listen. I am the end.
“One day,—again the sun was brilliantly—I a man pass me your name and laughing, who in his eyes. Damnation! I him; you know the rest.”
He ceased.
The girl but one word:
“Oh, my Phœbus!”
“Not that name!” said the priest, her arm violently. “Utter not that name! Oh! that we are, ’tis that name which has us! or, we have each other by the play of fate! you are suffering, are you not? you are cold; the night makes you blind, the you; but you still have some light in the of your soul, were it only your love for that empty man who played with your heart, while I the me; me there is winter, ice, despair; I have night in my soul.
“Do you know what I have suffered? I was present at your trial. I was seated on the official’s bench. Yes, under one of the priests’ cowls, there were the of the damned. When you were in, I was there; when you were questioned, I was there.—Den of wolves!—It was my crime, it was my that I being slowly over your head. I was there for every witness, every proof, every plea; I count each of your steps in the painful path; I was still there when that beast—oh! I had not torture! Listen. I you to that of anguish. I you and handled, naked, by the hands of the tormentor. I your foot, that which I would have an to and die, that foot, which to have had my I should have such rapture,—I it in that boot, which the of a being into one clod. Oh, wretch! while I looked on at that, I my a dagger, with which I my breast. When you that cry, I it into my flesh; at a second cry, it would have entered my heart. Look! I that it still bleeds.”
He opened his cassock. His was in fact, as by the of a tiger, and on his he had a large and wound.
The with horror.
“Oh!” said the priest, “young girl, have upon me! You think unhappy; alas! alas! you know not what is. Oh! to love a woman! to be a priest! to be hated! to love with all the of one’s soul; to that one would give for the least of her smiles, one’s blood, one’s vitals, one’s fame, one’s salvation, one’s and eternity, this life and the other; to that one is not a king, emperor, archangel, God, in order that one might place a her feet; to her night and day in one’s and one’s thoughts, and to her in love with the of a soldier and to have nothing to offer her but a priest’s dirty cassock, which will her with and disgust! To be present with one’s and one’s rage, while she on a miserable, imbecile, of love and beauty! To that you, that which so much sweetness, that and the of another! Oh heaven! to love her foot, her arm, her shoulder, to think of her veins, of her skin, until one for whole nights together on the of one’s cell, and to all those which one has of, end in torture! To have succeeded only in her upon the leather bed! Oh! these are the pincers, in the of hell. Oh! is he who is two planks, or in pieces by four horses! Do you know what that is, which is upon you for long nights by your arteries, your heart, your head, your teeth-knawed hands; which turn you incessantly, as upon a red-hot gridiron, to a of love, of jealousy, and of despair! Young girl, mercy! a for a moment! a on these live coals! Wipe away, I you, the which in great from my brow! Child! me with one hand, but me with the other! Have pity, girl! Have upon me!”
The on the wet pavement, his against the of the steps. The girl at him, and to him.
When he ceased, and panting, she in a low voice,—
“Oh my Phœbus!”
The himself her on his knees.
“I you,” he cried, “if you have any heart, do not me! Oh! I love you! I am a wretch! When you that name, girl, it is as though you all the of my your teeth. Mercy! If you come from I will go with you. I have done to that end. The where you are, shall be paradise; the of you is more than that of God! Oh! speak! you will have none of me? I should have the would be in their on the day when a woman would such a love. Oh! if you only would! Oh! how happy we might be. We would flee—I would help you to flee,—we would go somewhere, we would that spot on earth, where the sun is brightest, the sky the bluest, where the trees are most luxuriant. We would love each other, we would our two into each other, and we would have a thirst for ourselves which we would in common and at that of love.”
She with a terrible and laugh.
“Look, father, you have blood on your fingers!”
The for moments as though petrified, with his upon his hand.
“Well, yes!” he at last, with gentleness, “insult me, at me, me with scorn! but come, come. Let us make haste. It is to be to-morrow, I tell you. The on the Grève, you know it? it always ready. It is horrible! to see you in that tumbrel! Oh mercy! Until now I have the power of my love for you.—Oh! me. You shall take your time to love me after I have saved you. You shall me as long as you will. But come. To-morrow! to-morrow! the gallows! your execution! Oh! save yourself! me!”
He her arm, he was himself, he to her away.
She her on him.
“What has of my Phœbus?”
“Ah!” said the priest, her arm, “you are pitiless.”
“What has of Phœbus?” she coldly.
“He is dead!” the priest.
“Dead!” said she, still and “then why do you talk to me of living?”
He was not to her.
“Oh! yes,” said he, as though speaking to himself, “he must be dead. The deeply. I I touched his with the point. Oh! my very was at the end of the dagger!”
The girl herself upon him like a tigress, and pushed him upon the steps of the with force.
“Begone, monster! Begone, assassin! Leave me to die! May the blood of of us make an upon your brow! Be thine, priest! Never! never! Nothing shall us! not itself! Go, man! Never!”
The had on the stairs. He his from the of his robe, up his again, and slowly the of the steps which to the door; he opened the door and passed through it.
All at once, the girl his reappear; it a expression, and he cried, with and despair,—
“I tell you he is dead!”
She upon the floor, and there was no longer any in the than the of the of water which the the darkness.
