THE KEY TO THE RED DOOR.
In the meantime, public had the of the manner in which the had been saved. When he learned it, he not what his were. He had himself to la Esmeralda’s death. In that he was tranquil; he had the of personal suffering. The (Dom Claude had upon these matters) can only a quantity of despair. When the is saturated, the sea may pass over it without a single more to enter it.
Now, with la Esmeralda dead, the was soaked, all was at an end on this earth for Dom Claude. But to that she was alive, and Phœbus also, meant that tortures, shocks, alternatives, life, were again. And Claude was of all this.
When he this news, he himself in his in the cloister. He appeared neither at the of the chapter at the services. He closed his door against all, against the bishop. He thus for weeks. He was to be ill. And so he was, in fact.
What did he do while thus up? With what was the man contending? Was he final to his passion? Was he a final plan of death for her and of for himself?
His Jehan, his brother, his child, came once to his door, knocked, swore, entreated, gave his name a score of times. Claude did not open.
He passed whole days with his close to the of his window. From that window, in the cloister, he see la Esmeralda’s chamber. He often saw herself with her goat, sometimes with Quasimodo. He the little of the man, his obedience, his and with the gypsy. He recalled, for he had a good memory, and memory is the of the jealous, he the look of the bellringer, on the dancer upon a evening. He asked himself what have Quasimodo to save her. He was the of a thousand little the and the man, the of which, viewed from and on by his passion, appeared very to him. He the of women. Then he a which he have possible him, a which him with and indignation: “One might the captain, but this one!” This him.
His nights were frightful. As soon as he learned that the was alive, the cold ideas of and which had him for a whole day vanished, and the returned to him. He and on his at the that the dark-skinned was so near him.
Every night his la Esmeralda to him in all the which had his blood to most. He her upon the captain, her closed, her with Phœbus’s blood, at that moment of when the had on her that the girl, though dead, had felt. He her, again, by the hands of the torturers, them to and to in the with its iron screw, her foot, her leg, her white and knee. Again he that which alone of Torterue’s apparatus. Lastly, he pictured the girl in her shift, with the rope about her neck, bare, bare, almost nude, as he had her on that last day. These images of him his fists, and a along his spine.
One night, among others, they so his and blood, that he his pillow, from his bed, on a over his shirt, and left his cell, lamp in hand, naked, wild, his aflame.
He where to the key to the red door, which the with the church, and he always had about him, as the reader knows, the key of the leading to the towers.
