HUNCHBACKED, ONE EYED, LAME.
Every city the Middle Ages, and every city in France to the time of Louis XII. had its places of asylum. These sanctuaries, in the of the of penal and which the city, were a of which rose above the level of justice. Every who there was safe. There were in every almost as many places of as gallows. It was the of by the of the of punishment; two which to each other. The of the king, the hôtels of the princes, and churches, the right of asylum. Sometimes a whole city which in need of being was a place of refuge. Louis XI. all Paris a in 1467.
His once the asylum, the was sacred; but he must of it; one step the sanctuary, and he into the flood. The wheel, the gibbet, the strappado, good around the place of refuge, and in watch for their prey, like around a vessel. Hence, men were to be had white in a cloister, on the steps of a palace, in the of an abbey, the of a church; in this manner the was a prison as much as any other. It sometimes that a of the and the man to the executioner; but this was of occurrence. Parliaments were of the bishops, and when there was these two robes, the had but a against the cassock. Sometimes, however, as in the of the of Petit-Jean, the of Paris, and in that of Emery Rousseau, the of Jean Valleret, the church and passed on to the of its sentences; but unless by of a of Parliament, to him who a place of with force! The reader the manner of death of Robert de Clermont, Marshal of France, and of Jean de Châlons, Marshal of Champagne; and yet the question was only of a Perrin Marc, the of a money-changer, a assassin; but the two had the doors of St. Méry. Therein the enormity.
Such respect was for places of that, according to tradition, animals it at times. Aymoire that a stag, being by Dagobert, having taken near the of Saint-Denis, the pack of stopped and barked.
Churches had a small prepared for the of supplicants. In 1407, Nicolas Flamel to be on the of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie, a which cost him four six sous, sixteen farthings, parisis.
At Notre-Dame it was a on the of the aisle, the buttresses, at the spot where the wife of the present of the towers has for herself a garden, which is to the gardens of Babylon what a is to a palm-tree, what a porter’s wife is to a Semiramis.
It was here that Quasimodo had deposited la Esmeralda, after his wild and course. As long as that lasted, the girl had been unable to her senses, unconscious, awake, no longer anything, that she was through the air, in it, in it, that something was her above the earth. From time to time she the loud laughter, the noisy voice of Quasimodo in her ear; she opened her eyes; then her she Paris with its thousand of and tiles, like a red and mosaic, above her the and of Quasimodo. Then her again; she that all was over, that they had her her swoon, and that the which had over her destiny, had of her and was her away. She not look at him, and she herself to her fate. But when the bellringer, and panting, had deposited her in the of refuge, when she his hands the which her arms, she that of which with a start the of a which in the middle of a dark night. Her also, and returned to her one by one. She saw that she was in Notre-Dame; she having been from the hands of the executioner; that Phœbus was alive, that Phœbus loved her no longer; and as these two ideas, one of which so much over the other, presented themselves to the girl; she to Quasimodo, who was in of her, and who her; she said to him,—
“Why have you saved me?”
He at her with anxiety, as though to what she was saying to him. She her question. Then he gave her a and fled. She was astonished.
A moments later he returned, a which he at her feet. It was which some had left on the of the church for her.
Then she her upon herself and saw that she was almost naked, and blushed. Life had returned.
Quasimodo appeared to something of this modesty. He his with his large hand and retired once more, but slowly.
She to dress herself. The was a white one with a white veil,—the of a of the Hôtel-Dieu.
She had when she Quasimodo returning. He a under one arm and a under the other. In the there was a bottle, bread, and some provisions. He set the on the and said, “Eat!” He spread the on the and said, “Sleep.”
It was his own repast, it was his own bed, which the had gone in search of.
The her to thank him, but she not a word. She her with a of terror.
Then he said to her.—
“I you. I am very ugly, am I not? Do not look at me; only to me. During the day you will here; at night you can walk all over the church. But do not the church either by day or by night. You would be lost. They would kill you, and I should die.”
She was touched and her to answer him. He had disappeared. She herself alone once more, upon the of this almost being, and by the of his voice, which was so yet so gentle.
Then she her cell. It was a about six square, with a small window and a door on the plane of the of stones. Many with the of animals to be around her, and their necks in order to at her through the window. Over the of her she the of thousands of which the of all the in Paris to her eyes. A sad for the gypsy, a foundling, to death, an creature, without country, without family, without a hearthstone.
At the moment when the of her thus appeared to her more than ever, she a and her hands, upon her knees. She started (everything her now) and looked. It was the goat, the Djali, which had its after her, at the moment when Quasimodo had put to Charmolue’s brigade, and which had been on her for nearly an hour past, without being able to win a glance. The him with kisses.
“Oh! Djali!” she said, “how I have thee! And so still of me! Oh! art not an ingrate!”
At the same time, as though an hand had the weight which had her in her for so long, she to weep, and, in as her flowed, she all that was most and in her with them.
Evening came, she the night so that she the of the which the church. It her some relief, so did the earth appear when viewed from that height.
