EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.
Day day. Calm returned to the of la Esmeralda. Excess of grief, like of is a thing which lasts but a time. The of man cannot long in one extremity. The had so much, that nothing was left her but astonishment. With security, had returned to her. She was the of society, the of life, but she had a that it might not be to return to it. She was like a person, who should in the key to her tomb.
She the terrible images which had so long her, departing. All the phantoms, Pierrat Torterue, Jacques Charmolue, were from her mind, all, the priest.
And then, Phœbus was alive; she was sure of it, she had him. To her the of Phœbus being alive was everything. After the series of which had her, she had but one thing in her soul, one sentiment,—her love for the captain. Love is like a tree; it of itself, sends its out through our whole being, and often to over a in ruins.
And the point about it is that the more is this passion, the more it is. It is more solid than when it has no in it.
La Esmeralda did not think of the captain without bitterness, no doubt. No it was terrible that he also should have been deceived; that he should have that thing, that he have of a by her who would have a thousand for him. But, after all, she must not be too angry with him for it; had she not her crime? had she not yielded, weak woman that she was, to torture? The fault was hers. She should have allowed her to be out than such a word to be from her. In short, if she but see Phœbus once more, for a single minute, only one word would be required, one look, in order to him, to him back. She did not it. She was also at many things, at the accident of Phœbus’s presence on the day of the penance, at the girl with he had been. She was his sister, no doubt. An explanation, but she herself with it, she needed to that Phœbus still loved her, and loved her alone. Had he not it to her? What more was needed, and as she was? And then, in this matter, were not much more against her than against him? Accordingly, she waited. She hoped.
Let us add that the church, that church, which her on every side, which her, which saved her, was itself a tranquillizer. The lines of that architecture, the religious of all the objects which the girl, the and which emanated, so to speak, from all the of that stone, upon her without her being aware of it. The had also with such and such majesty, that they this soul. The of the celebrants, the of the people to the priest, sometimes inarticulate, sometimes thunderous, the of the painted windows, the organ, like a hundred trumpets, the three belfries, like of bees, that whole on which a scale, ascending, from the voice of a to that of one bell, her memory, her imagination, her grief. The bells, in particular, her. It was something like a powerful which those over her in great waves.
Thus every her more calm, better, less pale. In as her closed, her and once more on her countenance, but more thoughtful, more reposeful. Her also returned to her, of her gayety, her pout, her love for her goat, her love for singing, her modesty. She took to dress herself in the in the of her for some of the might see her through the window.
When the of Phœbus left her time, the sometimes of Quasimodo. He was the bond, the connection, the which to her with men, with the living. Unfortunate girl! she was more the world than Quasimodo. She not in the least the friend had her. She often herself for not a which should close her eyes, but decidedly, she not herself to the bellringer. He was too ugly.
She had left the which he had her on the ground. This did not prevent Quasimodo from making his from time to time the days. She did her best not to turn with too much when he came to her her of or her of water, but he always the movement of this sort, and then he sadly.
Once he came at the moment when she was Djali. He for minutes this group of the and the gypsy; at last he said, his and ill-formed head,—
“My is that I still a man too much. I should like to be a like that goat.”
She at him in amazement.
He to the glance,—
“Oh! I well know why,” and he away.
On another occasion he presented himself at the door of the (which he entered) at the moment when la Esmeralda was an old Spanish ballad, the of which she did not understand, but which had in her ear the had her to sleep with it when she was a little child. At the of that which its so in the middle of her song, the girl paused with an of alarm. The upon his on the threshold, and his large, hands with a air. “Oh!” he said, sorrowfully, “continue, I you, and do not drive me away.” She did not wish to pain him, and her lay, all over. By degrees, however, her terror disappeared, and she herself to the slow and air which she was singing. He on his with hands clasped, as in prayer, attentive, breathing, his upon the gypsy’s eyes.
On another occasion, he came to her with an and air. “Listen,” he said, with an effort; “I have something to say to you.” She him a that she was listening. Then he to sigh, opened his lips, appeared for a moment to be on the point of speaking, then he looked at her again, his head, and slowly, with his in his hand, the stupefied. Among the on the wall, there was one to he was particularly attached, and with which he often to glances. Once the him saying to it,—
“Oh! why am not I of stone, like you!”
At last, one morning, la Esmeralda had to the of the roof, and was looking into the Place over the pointed of Saint-Jean le Rond. Quasimodo was her. He had himself in that position in order to the girl, as as possible, the of him. All at once the started, a tear and a of in her eyes, she on the of the and her arms the Place with anguish, exclaiming: “Phœbus! come! come! a word, a single word in the name of heaven! Phœbus! Phœbus!” Her voice, her face, her gesture, her whole person the of a man who is making a of to the which is off in a of on the horizon.
Quasimodo over the Place, and saw that the object of this and prayer was a man, a captain, a all with arms and decorations, across the end of the Place, and with his a lady who was at him from her balcony. However, the officer did not the girl calling him; he was too away.
But the man heard. A his breast; he round; his was with all the which he was swallowing; his convulsively-clenched against his head, and when he them there was a of red in each hand.
The paid no to him. He said in a low voice as he his teeth,—
“Damnation! That is what one should be like! ’Tis only necessary to be on the outside!”
Meanwhile, she kneeling, and with agitation,—
“Oh! there he is from his horse! He is about to enter that house!—Phœbus!—He not me! Phœbus!—How that woman is to speak to him at the same time with me! Phœbus! Phœbus!”
The man at her. He this pantomime. The bellringer’s with tears, but he let none fall. All at once he her by the border of her sleeve. She round. He had a air; he said to her,—
“Would you like to have me him to you?”
She a of joy.
“Oh! go! hasten! run! quick! that captain! that captain! him to me! I will love you for it!”
She his knees. He not from his sadly.
“I will him to you,” he said, in a weak voice. Then he his and the with great strides, with sobs.
When he the Place, he no longer saw anything the at the door of the Gondelaurier house; the captain had just entered there.
He his to the of the church. La Esmeralda was there in the same spot, in the same attitude. He her a sad with his head; then he planted his against one of the of the Gondelaurier porch, to wait until the captain should come forth.
In the Gondelaurier house it was one of those days which a wedding. Quasimodo many people enter, but no one come out. He a the from time to time; the did not any more than himself. A came and the and it to the of the house.
The entire day passed thus, Quasimodo at his post, la Esmeralda on the roof, Phœbus, no doubt, at the of Fleur-de-Lys.
At length night came, a night, a dark night. Quasimodo his in upon la Esmeralda; soon she was no more than a the twilight; then nothing. All was effaced, all was black.
Quasimodo the from top to of the Gondelaurier illuminated; he saw the other in the Place one by one, he also saw them to the very last, for he the whole at his post. The officer did not come forth. When the last passers-by had returned home, when the of all the other houses were extinguished, Quasimodo was left alone, in the dark. There were at that time no in the square Notre-Dame.
Meanwhile, the of the Gondelaurier lighted, after midnight. Quasimodo, and attentive, a of lively, dancing pass the many-colored painted panes. Had he not been deaf, he would have more and more distinctly, in as the noise of sleeping Paris died away, a of feasting, laughter, and music in the Gondelaurier mansion.
Towards one o’clock in the morning, the guests to take their leave. Quasimodo, in them all pass out through the with torches. None of them was the captain.
He was with sad thoughts; at times he looked into the air, like a person who is of waiting. Great black clouds, heavy, torn, split, like the of night. One would have them spiders’ of the of heaven.
In one of these moments he the long window on the balcony, above his head, open mysteriously. The door gave passage to two persons, and closed them; it was a man and a woman.
It was not without that Quasimodo succeeded in in the man the captain, in the woman the lady he had welcome the officer in the from that very balcony. The place was perfectly dark, and a which had across the door the very moment it closed again, allowed no light to the from the apartment.
The man and the girl, so as our man judge, without a single one of their words, appeared to themselves to a very tête-à-tête. The girl to have allowed the officer to make a for her of his arm, and a kiss.
Quasimodo looked on from at this which was all the more to it was not meant to be seen. He with that beauty, that happiness. After all, nature was not in the fellow, and his sensibility, all as it was, no less than any other. He of the which Providence had to him; that woman and the of love, would pass his eyes, and that he should do anything but the of others. But that which rent his most in this sight, that which with his anger, was the of what the would she it. It is true that the night was very dark, that la Esmeralda, if she had at her post (and he had no of this), was very away, and that it was all that he himself do to the lovers on the balcony. This him.
Meanwhile, their more and more animated. The lady appeared to be the officer to ask nothing more of her. Of all this Quasimodo only the hands, the with tears, the girl’s to the stars, the of the captain upon her.
Fortunately, for the girl was to but feebly, the door of the opened once more and an old appeared; the confused, the officer an air of displeasure, and all three withdrew.
A moment later, a was his under the porch, and the officer, in his night cloak, passed Quasimodo.
The allowed him to turn the of the street, then he ran after him with his ape-like agility, shouting: “Hey there! captain!”
The captain halted.
“What wants this with me?” he said, through the of that which ran after him.
Meanwhile, Quasimodo had up with him, and had his horse’s bridle: “Follow me, captain; there is one here who to speak with you!
“Cornemahom!” Phœbus, “here’s a villanous; bird which I I have somewhere. Holà master, will you let my horse’s alone?”
“Captain,” the man, “do you not ask me who it is?”
“I tell you to my horse,” Phœbus, impatiently. “What means the by to the of my steed? Do you take my for a gallows?”
Quasimodo, from the bridle, prepared to him to his steps. Unable to the captain’s resistance, he to say to him,—
“Come, captain, ’tis a woman who is waiting for you.” He added with an effort: “A woman who loves you.”
“A rascal!” said the captain, “who thinks me to go to all the who love me! or who say they do. And what if, by chance, she should you, you of a screech-owl? Tell the woman who has sent you that I am about to marry, and that she may go to the devil!”
“Listen,” Quasimodo, to overcome his with a word, “come, monseigneur! ’tis the you know!”
This word did, indeed, produce a great on Phœbus, but not of the which the man expected. It will be that our officer had retired with Fleur-de-Lys moments Quasimodo had the girl from the hands of Charmolue. Afterwards, in all his visits to the Gondelaurier he had taken not to mention that woman, the memory of was, after all, painful to him; and on her side, Fleur-de-Lys had not it to tell him that the was alive. Hence Phœbus “Similar” to be dead, and that a month or two had since her death. Let us add that for the last moments the captain had been on the of the night, the ugliness, the voice of the messenger; that it was past midnight; that the was deserted, as on the when the monk had him; and that his as it looked at Quasimodo.
“The gypsy!” he exclaimed, almost frightened. “Look here, do you come from the other world?”
And he his hand on the of his dagger.
“Quick, quick,” said the man, to the along; “this way!”
Phœbus him a in the breast.
Quasimodo’s flashed. He a motion to himself on the captain. Then he himself up and said,—
“Oh! how happy you are to have some one who loves you!”
He the “some one,” and the horse’s bridle,—
“Begone!”
Phœbus on in all haste, swearing. Quasimodo him in the of the street.
“Oh!” said the man, in a very low voice; “to that!”
He re-entered Notre-Dame, his lamp and to the tower again. The was still in the same place, as he had supposed.
She to meet him as off as she see him. “Alone!” she cried, her hands sorrowfully.
“I not him,” said Quasimodo coldly.
“You should have waited all night,” she said angrily.
He saw her of wrath, and the reproach.
“I will in wait for him another time,” he said, his head.
“Begone!” she said to him.
He left her. She was with him. He to have her him than to have her. He had all the pain to himself.
From that day forth, the no longer saw him. He to come to her cell. At the most she occasionally a at the of the towers, of the bellringer’s sadly to her. But as soon as she him, he disappeared.
We must admit that she was not much by this on the part of the hunchback. At the of her she was to him for it. Moreover, Quasimodo did not himself on this point.
She no longer saw him, but she the presence of a good about her. Her were by an hand her slumbers. One she a of on her window. There was a piece of above her window which her. She had this more than once in Quasimodo’s presence. One morning, for all these at night, she no longer saw it, it had been broken. The person who had up to that must have his life.
Sometimes, in the evening, she a voice, the wind screen of the tower, a sad, song, as though to her to sleep. The lines were unrhymed, such as a person can make.
Ne la figure,
Jeune fille, le cœur.
Le cœur d’un difforme.
Il y a cœurs où l’amour ne se pas.
Jeune fille, le n’est beau,
N’est le peuplier,
Mais il son l’hiver.
Hélas! à cela?
Ce n’est a d’être;
La beauté n’aime la beauté,
Avril le à janvier.
La beauté parfaite,
La beauté tout,
La beauté la n’existe à demi.
Le ne le jour,
Le ne la nuit,
Le la et le jour.[52]
One morning, on awaking, she saw on her window two with flowers. One was a very and very but of glass. It had allowed the water with which it had been to escape, and the flowers which it were withered. The other was an pot, and common, but which had all its water, and its flowers fresh and crimson.
I know not it was done intentionally, but La Esmeralda took the and it all day long upon her breast.
That day she did not the voice in the tower.
She herself very little about it. She passed her days in Djali, in the door of the Gondelaurier house, in talking to herself about Phœbus, and in up her for the swallows.
She had to see or Quasimodo. The to have from the church. One night, nevertheless, when she was not asleep, but was of her captain, she something near her cell. She rose in alarm, and saw by the light of the moon, a across her door on the outside. It was Quasimodo asleep there upon the stones.
