THREE HUMAN HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTRUCTED.
Phœbus was not dead, however. Men of that die hard. When Master Philippe Lheulier, of the king, had said to Esmeralda; “He is dying,” it was an error or a jest. When the had to the girl; “He is dead,” the is that he nothing about it, but that he it, that he on it, that he did not it, that he it. It would have been too hard for him to give news of his to the woman he loved. Any man would have done the same in his place.
It was not that Phœbus’s had not been serious, but it had not been as much so as the believed. The physician, to the soldiers of the watch had him at the moment, had for his life the space of a week, and had told him so in Latin. But had the upper hand; and, as happens, in of and diagnoses, nature had herself by saving the man under the physician’s very nose. It was while he was still on the leech’s that he had submitted to the of Philippe Lheulier and the official inquisitors, which had him greatly. Hence, one morning, himself better, he had left his with the as payment, and had away. This had not, however, with the progress of the affair. Justice, at that epoch, itself very little about the and of a suit. Provided that the was hung, that was all that was necessary. Now the judge had of proofs against la Esmeralda. They had Phœbus to be dead, and that was the end of the matter.
Phœbus, on his side, had not far. He had his company in at Queue-en-Brie, in the Isle-de-France, a from Paris.
After all, it did not him in the least to appear in this suit. He had a that he should play a in it. On the whole, he did not know what to think of the whole affair. Superstitious, and not to devoutness, like every soldier who is only a soldier, when he came to question himself about this adventure, he did not as to the goat, as to the fashion in which he had met La Esmeralda, as to the no less manner in which she had allowed him to her love, as to her as a gypsy, and lastly, as to the monk. He in all these much more magic than love, a sorceress, the devil; a comedy, in short, or to speak in the language of that day, a very mystery, in which he played a very part, the role of and derision. The captain was put out of about it; he that of which our La Fontaine has so defined,—
Ashamed as a who has been by a fowl.
Moreover, he that the would not abroad, that his name would be in it, and that in any case it would not go the of the Tournelle. In this he was not mistaken, there was then no Gazette Tribunaux; and as not a week passed which had not its to boil, or its to hang, or its to burn, at some one of the of Paris, people were so to in all the the Themis, armed, with up, her at the gibbets, the ladders, and the pillories, that they paid any to it. Fashionable of that day the name of the who passed by at the of the street, and it was the at the most who themselves with this fare. An was an of the public highways, like the braising-pan of the or the slaughter-house of the knacker. The was only a of of a little than the rest.
Hence Phœbus’s mind was soon at on the score of the Esmeralda, or Similar, as he called her, the from the of the Bohemian or of the monk (it little which to him), and as to the issue of the trial. But as soon as his was in that direction, Fleur-de-Lys returned to it. Captain Phœbus’s heart, like the of that day, a vacuum.
Queue-en-Brie was a very place to at then, a village of farriers, and cow-girls with hands, a long line of and cottages, which borders the road on for a league; a (queue), in short, as its name imports.
Fleur-de-Lys was his last but one, a girl, a dowry; accordingly, one morning, cured, and that, after the of two months, the Bohemian must be and forgotten, the on a at the door of the Gondelaurier mansion.
He paid no attention to a which had assembled in the Place du Parvis, the portal of Notre-Dame; he that it was the month of May; he that it was some procession, some Pentecost, some festival, his to the ring at the door, and the stairs to his betrothed.
She was alone with her mother.
The of the witch, her goat, her alphabet, and Phœbus’s long absences, still on Fleur-de-Lys’s heart. Nevertheless, when she her captain enter, she him so handsome, his so new, his so shining, and his air so impassioned, that she with pleasure. The herself was more than ever. Her was in a manner, she was in that sky which people so well, a of which she had learned from Colombe, and her were in that of love which them still better.
Phœbus, who had nothing in the line of beauty, since he left the village of Queue-en-Brie, was with Fleur-de-Lys, which to our officer so and an air, that his peace was made. Madame de Gondelaurier herself, still seated in her big arm-chair, had not the to him. As for Fleur-de-Lys’s reproaches, they in cooings.
The girl was seated near the window still her of Neptune. The captain was over the of her chair, and she was her to him in a low voice.
“What has of you these two long months, man?”
“I to you,” Phœbus, embarrassed by the question, “that you are to set an to dreaming.”
She not a smile.
“Good, good, sir. Let my alone and answer my question. A beauty, in sooth!”
“Well, my dear cousin, I was to the garrison.
“And where is that, if you please? and why did not you come to say farewell?”
“At Queue-en-Brie.”
Phœbus was with the question, which helped him to avoid the second.
“But that is close by, monsieur. Why did you not come to see me a single time?”
Here Phœbus was embarrassed.
“Because—the service—and then, cousin, I have been ill.”
“Ill!” she in alarm.
“Yes, wounded!”
“Wounded!”
The child was upset.
“Oh! do not be at that,” said Phœbus, carelessly, “it was nothing. A quarrel, a cut; what is that to you?”
“What is that to me?” Fleur-de-Lys, her with tears. “Oh! you do not say what you think when you speak thus. What cut was that? I wish to know all.”
“Well, my dear one, I had a out with Mahé Fédy, you know? the of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and we open a of skin for each other. That is all.”
The captain was perfectly well aware that an of always makes a man well in the of a woman. In fact, Fleur-de-Lys looked him full in the face, all with fear, pleasure, and admiration. Still, she was not reassured.
“Provided that you are cured, my Phœbus!” said she. “I do not know your Mahé Fédy, but he is a man. And this quarrel?”
Here Phœbus, was with but power of creation, to himself in a as to a means of himself for his prowess.
“Oh! how do I know?—a nothing, a horse, a remark! Fair cousin,” he exclaimed, for the of the conversation, “what noise is this in the Cathedral Square?”
He approached the window.
“Oh! Mon Dieu, cousin, how many people there are on the Place!”
“I know not,” said Fleur-de-Lys; “it that a is to do this the church, and to be hung.”
The captain was so that la Esmeralda’s was concluded, that he was but little by Fleur-de-Lys’s words. Still, he asked her one or two questions.
“What is the name of this witch?”
“I do not know,” she replied.
“And what is she said to have done?”
She her white shoulders.
“I know not.”
“Oh, Dieu Jésus!” said her mother; “there are so many that I say they them without their names. One might as well the name of every cloud in the sky. After all, one may be tranquil. The good God his register.” Here the rose and came to the window. “Good Lord! you are right, Phœbus,” said she. “The is great. There are people on all the roofs, be God! Do you know, Phœbus, this me of my best days. The entrance of King Charles VII., when, also, there were many people. I no longer in what year that was. When I speak of this to you, it produces upon you the effect,—does it not?—the of something very old, and upon me of something very young. Oh! the was than at the present day. They upon the of the Porte Sainte-Antoine. The king had the queen on a pillion, and after their came all the ladies all the lords. I that they laughed loudly, Amanyon de Garlande, who was very of stature, there the Sire Matefelon, a of size, who had killed of English. It was very fine. A of all the of France, with their red the eye. There were some with and some with banners. How can I tell? the Sire de Calan with a pennon; Jean de Châteaumorant with a banner; the Sire de Courcy with a banner, and a more one than any of the others the Duc de Bourbon. Alas! ’tis a sad thing to think that all that has and no longer!”
The two lovers were not to the dowager. Phœbus had returned and was on the of his betrothed’s chair, a post his into all the openings of Fleur-de-Lys’s gorget. This so conveniently, and allowed him to see so many and to so many more, that Phœbus, by this skin with its of satin, said to himself, “How can any one love anything but a skin?”
Both were silent. The girl sweet, to him from time to time, and their in a of sunshine.
“Phœbus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, in a low voice, “we are to be married three months hence; to me that you have loved any other woman than myself.”
“I it, angel!” Phœbus, and his the of his voice in Fleur-de-Lys.
Meanwhile, the good mother, to see the pair on terms of such perfect understanding, had just the to to some matter; Phœbus it, and this so the captain that very ideas to his brain. Fleur-de-Lys loved him, he was her betrothed; she was alone with him; his taste for her had re-awakened, not with all its but with all its ardor; after all, there is no great in one’s while it is still in the blade; I do not know these ideas passed through his mind, but one thing is certain, that Fleur-de-Lys was by the of his glance. She looked and saw that her mother was no longer there.
“Good heavens!” said she, and uneasy, “how very warm I am!”
“I think, in fact,” Phœbus, “that it cannot be from midday. The sun is troublesome. We need only the curtains.”
“No, no,” the little thing, “on the contrary, I need air.”
And like a who the of the pack of hounds, she rose, ran to the window, opened it, and upon the balcony.
Phœbus, much discomfited, her.
The Place du Parvis Notre-Dame, upon which the looked, as the reader knows, presented at that moment a and which the of the Fleur-de-Lys to its nature.
An crowd, which overflowed into all the streets, the Place, properly speaking. The little wall, high, which the Place, would not have to keep it free had it not been with a thick of and hackbuteers, in hand. Thanks to this of and arquebuses, the Parvis was empty. Its entrance was by a of with the of the bishop. The large doors of the church were closed, and a with the on the Place, which, open to their very gables, allowed a view of thousands of up almost like the of in a park of artillery.
The surface of this was dingy, dirty, earthy. The which it was was one of the which the of out and calling together the among the populace. Nothing is so as the noise which was by that of yellow and dirty heads. In that there were more laughs than cries, more than men.
From time to time, a and voice the clamor.
“Ohé! Mahiet Baliffre! Is she to be yonder?”
“Fool! ’tis here that she is to make her in her shift! the good God is going to Latin in her face! That is always done here, at midday. If ’tis the that you wish, go to the Grève.”
“I will go there, afterwards.”
“Tell me, la Boucanbry? Is it true that she has a confessor?”
“It so, La Bechaigne.”
“You see what a she is!”
“’Tis the custom, monsieur. The of the is to deliver the for if he be a layman, to the of Paris; if a clerk, to the official of the bishopric.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, God!” said Fleur-de-Lys, “the creature!”
This with the which she upon the populace. The captain, much more with her than with that pack of the rabble, was her behind. She round, and smiling.
“Please let me alone, Phœbus! If my mother were to return, she would see your hand!”
At that moment, slowly out from the clock of Notre-Dame. A of out in the crowd. The last of the had died away when all like the a squall, and an up from the pavement, the windows, and the roofs,
“There she is!”
Fleur-de-Lys pressed her hands to her eyes, that she might not see.
“Charming girl,” said Phœbus, “do you wish to withdraw?”
“No,” she replied; and she opened through curiosity, the which she had closed through fear.
A by a Norman horse, and all by in with white crosses, had just upon the Place through the Rue Saint-Pierre-aux-Bœufs. The of the watch were a passage for it through the crowd, by from their clubs. Beside the officers of and police, by their black and their in the saddle. Master Jacques Charmolue at their head.
In the sat a girl with her arms her back, and with no her. She was in her shift; her long black (the fashion then was to cut it off only at the of the gallows) in upon her half-bared and shoulders.
Athwart that hair, more than the of a raven, a thick, rough, rope was visible, and knotted, her collar-bones and the of the girl, like an a flower. Beneath that rope a with of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, nothing is to those who are about to die. The in the see in the of the her which she to her, as by a final instinct. At her a little goat, bound. The girl together with her teeth her shift. One would have said that she still more in her from being thus almost to the of all. Alas! is not for such shocks.
“Jesus!” said Fleur-de-Lys to the captain. “Look cousin, ’tis that Bohemian with the goat.”
So saying, she to Phœbus. His were on the tumbrel. He was very pale.
“What Bohemian with the goat?” he stammered.
“What!” Fleur-de-Lys, “do you not remember?”
Phœbus her.
“I do not know what you mean.”
He a step to re-enter the room, but Fleur-de-Lys, jealousy, so by this same gypsy, had just been re-awakened, Fleur-de-Lys gave him a look full of and distrust. She at that moment having of a captain mixed up in the trial of that witch.
“What is the with you?” she said to Phœbus, “one would say, that this woman had you.”
Phœbus a sneer,—
“Me! Not the least in the world! Ah! yes, certainly!”
“Remain, then!” she imperiously, “and let us see the end.”
The unlucky captain was to remain. He was by the that the girl her from the of the cart. It was but too surely la Esmeralda. In this last stage of and misfortune, she was still beautiful; her great black appeared still larger, of the of her cheeks; her profile was pure and sublime. She what she had been, in the same that a by Masaccio, a of Raphael,—weaker, thinner, more delicate.
Moreover, there was nothing in her which was not in some sort, and which with the of her modesty, she did not let go at will, so had she been by and despair. Her at every of the like a or thing; her was and imbecile. A tear was still visible in her eyes, but and frozen, so to speak.
Meanwhile, the has the of and attitudes. But as a historian, we must that on her so beautiful, so depressed, many were moved with pity, among the of them.
The had entered the Parvis.
It the portal. The themselves in line on sides. The silent, and, in the of this full of and solemnity, the two of the door back, as of themselves, on their hinges, which gave a like the of a fife. Then there visible in all its length, the deep, church, in black, with a off on the altar, opened in the of the Place which was with light, like the mouth of a cavern. At the very extremity, in the of the apse, a was visible against a black which from the to the pavement. The whole was deserted. But a of be moving in the stalls, and, at the moment when the great door opened, there from the church a loud, solemn, and chanting, which over the of the girl, in gusts, of psalms,—
“Non me: exsurge, Domine; me fac, Deus!”
“Salvum me fac, Deus, aquæ ad meam.
“Infixus in profundi; et substantia.”
At the same time, another voice, from the choir, upon the steps of the altar, this offertory,—
“Qui audit, et ei me, æternam et in venit; a in vitam.”[46]
This chant, which a old men in the sang from over that creature, full of and life, by the warm air of spring, with was the for the dead.
The people devoutly.
The girl to her and her in the of the church. Her white moved as though in prayer, and the headsman’s who approached to her to from the cart, her this word in a low tone,—“Phœbus.”
They her hands, her alight, by her goat, which had also been unbound, and which with at itself free: and they her walk on the hard to the of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her her. One would have said it was a her.
Then the in the church ceased. A great and a of to move through the gloom. The of the clanked; and, a moments later, a long of in chasubles, and in dalmatics, the girl, as they their song, spread out her view and that of the crowd. But her rested on the one who at the head, after the cross-bearer.
“Oh!” she said in a low voice, and with a shudder, “’tis he again! the priest!”
It was in fact, the archdeacon. On his left he had the sub-chanter, on his right, the chanter, with his official wand. He with back, his and wide open, in a voice,—
“De clamavi, et meam.
“Et me in in maris, et me.”[47]
At the moment when he his in the full the portal, in an of with a black cross, he was so that more than one person in the that one of the marble who on the of the had and was come to upon the of the tomb, the woman who was about to die.
She, no less pale, no less like a statue, had noticed that they had in her hand a heavy, of yellow wax; she had not the voice of the reading the of the apology; when they told her to respond with Amen, she Amen. She only life and when she the make a to her to withdraw, and himself alone her.
Then she her blood in her head, and a of up in that already and cold.
The approached her slowly; in that extremity, she him an with sensuality, jealousy, and desire, over her form. Then he said aloud,—
“Young girl, have you asked God’s for your and shortcomings?”
He to her ear, and added (the that he was her last confession): “Will you have me? I can still save you!”
She looked at him: “Begone, demon, or I will you!”
He gave to a smile: “You will not be believed. You will only add a to a crime. Reply quickly! Will you have me?”
“What have you done with my Phœbus?”
“He is dead!” said the priest.
At that moment the his and at the other end of the Place, in the of the Gondelaurier mansion, the captain Fleur-de-Lys. He staggered, passed his hand across his eyes, looked again, a curse, and all his were contorted.
“Well, die then!” he his teeth. “No one shall have you.” Then, his hand over the gypsy, he in a voice:—“I nunc, anceps, et Deus misericors!”[48]
This was the with which it was the to these ceremonies. It was the upon the and the executioner.
The knelt.
“Kyrie eleison,”[49] said the priests, who had the of the portal.
“Kyrie eleison,” the in that which over all heads, like the of a sea.
“Amen,” said the archdeacon.
He his on the girl, his upon his once more, he his hands and his of priests, and a moment later he was to disappear, with the cross, the candles, and the copes, the of the cathedral, and his voice was by in the choir, as he this of despair,—
“Omnes et super me transierunt.”[50]
At the same time, the of the iron of the beadles’ halberds, away among the of the nave, produced the of a clock the last hour of the condemned.
The doors of Notre-Dame open, a view of the empty church, in mourning, without candles, and without voices.
The girl in her place, waiting to be of. One of the of police was to Master Charmolue of the fact, as the latter, this entire scene, had been in studying the bas-relief of the portal which represents, according to some, the of Abraham; according to others, the philosopher’s operation: the sun being by the angel; the fire, by the fagot; the artisan, by Abraham.
There was in him away from that contemplation, but at length he round; and, at a which he gave, two men in yellow, the executioner’s assistants, approached the to her hands once more.
The creature, at the moment of once again the cart, and to her last halting-place, was seized, possibly, with some to life. She her dry, red to heaven, to the sun, to the clouds, cut here and there by a or triangle; then she them to objects around her, to the earth, the throng, the houses; all at once, while the yellow man was her elbows, she a terrible cry, a of joy. Yonder, on that balcony, at the of the Place, she had just of him, of her friend, her lord, Phœbus, the other of her life!
The judge had lied! the had lied! it was he, she not it; he was there, handsome, alive, in his uniform, his on his head, his by his side!
“Phœbus!” she cried, “my Phœbus!”
And she to him arms with love and rapture, but they were bound.
Then she saw the captain frown, a girl who was against him at him with and eyes; then Phœbus some which did not her, and the window opening upon the balcony, which closed after them.
“Phœbus!” she wildly, “can it be you it?” A had just presented itself to her. She that she had been to death for on the person of Phœbus de Châteaupers.
She had up until that moment. But this last was too harsh. She on the pavement.
“Come,” said Charmolue, “carry her to the cart, and make an end of it.”
No one had yet in the of the of the kings, directly above the of the portal, a spectator, who had, up to that time, with such impassiveness, with a so strained, a so that, in his of red and violet, he might have been taken for one of those through mouths the long of the have their for six hundred years. This had missed nothing that had taken place since in of the portal of Notre-Dame. And at the very he had to one of the small a large rope, one end of which on the of steps below. This being done, he to look on tranquilly, from time to time when a past. Suddenly, at the moment when the superintendent’s were preparing to Charmolue’s order, he his leg over the of the gallery, the rope with his feet, his and his hands; then he was to the façade, as a of rain a window-pane, to the two with the of a cat which has from a roof, them with two fists, up the with one hand, as a child would her doll, and into the church with a single bound, the girl above his and in a voice,—
“Sanctuary!”
This was done with such rapidity, that had it taken place at night, the whole of it have been in the space of a single of lightning.
“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” the crowd; and the of ten thousand hands Quasimodo’s single with and pride.
This the girl to her senses. She her eyelids, looked at Quasimodo, then closed them again suddenly, as though by her deliverer.
Charmolue was stupefied, as well as the and the entire escort. In fact, the of Notre-Dame, the girl not be touched. The was a place of refuge. All upon its threshold.
Quasimodo had the great portal, his as solid on the of the church as the Roman pillars. His great, sat low his shoulders, like the of lions, who also have a and no neck. He the girl, who was all over, from his hands like a white drapery; but he her with as much as though he to her or her. One would have said that he that she was a delicate, exquisite, thing, for other hands than his. There were moments when he looked as if not to touch her, with his breath. Then, all at once, he would press her in his arms, against his bosom, like his own possession, his treasure, as the mother of that child would have done. His gnome’s eye, upon her, her with tenderness, sadness, and pity, and was with lightnings. Then the laughed and wept, the with enthusiasm, for, at that moment Quasimodo had a of his own. He was handsome; he, that orphan, that foundling, that outcast, he himself and strong, he in the of that from which he was banished, and in which he had so powerfully intervened, of that from which he had its prey, of all those were to empty, of those policemen, those judges, those executioners, of all that of the king which he, the of creatures, had just broken, with the of God.
And then, it was to this protection which had from a being so upon a being so unhappy, a to death saved by Quasimodo. They were two of natural and social wretchedness, into and each other.
Meanwhile, after moments of triumph, Quasimodo had into the church with his burden. The populace, of all prowess, him with their eyes, the nave, that he had so from their acclamations. All at once, he was to re-appear at one of the of the of the kings of France; he it, like a madman, his high in his arms and shouting: “Sanctuary!” The into fresh applause. The passed, he once more into the of the church. A moment later, he re-appeared upon the upper platform, with the still in his arms, still madly, still crying, “Sanctuary!” and the applauded. Finally, he his for the third time upon the of the tower where the great bell; from that point he to be to the entire city the girl he had saved, and his voice of thunder, that voice which was so heard, and which he himself, thrice with frenzy, to the clouds: “Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
“Noël! Noël!” the in its turn; and that to the assembled at the Grève on the other bank, and the who was still waiting with her on the gibbet.
BOOK NINTH.
