AN AWKWARD FRIEND.
That night, Quasimodo did not sleep. He had just his last of the church. He had not noticed, that at the moment when he was the doors, the had passed close to him and some on him and with the iron which gave to their large the of a wall. Dom Claude’s air was more than usual. Moreover, since the in the cell, he had Quasimodo, but in did he treat, and him occasionally, nothing the submission, patience, the of the bellringer. He on the part of the archdeacon, insults, threats, blows, without a complaint. At the most, he after Dom Claude when the the of the tower; but the had from himself again the gypsy’s eyes.
On that night, accordingly, Quasimodo, after having a at his which he so neglected now, Jacqueline, Marie, and Thibauld, to the of the Northern tower, and there setting his dark lanturn, well closed, upon the leads, he to at Paris. The night, as we have already said, was very dark. Paris which, so to speak was not at that epoch, presented to the a of black masses, cut here and there by the of the Seine. Quasimodo no longer saw any light with the of one window in a edifice, and profile was well above the roofs, in the direction of the Porte Sainte-Antoine. There also, there was some one awake.
As the only of the into that of and night, he him an uneasiness. For days he had been upon his guard. He had men of mien, who took their from the girl’s asylum, about the church. He that some plot might be in of against the refugee. He that there a popular against her, as against himself, and that it was very possible that something might soon. Hence he upon his tower on the watch, “dreaming in his dream-place,” as Rabelais says, with his alternately on the and on Paris, guard, like a good dog, with a thousand in his mind.
All at once, while he was the great city with that which nature, by a of compensation, had so that it almost supply the other organs which Quasimodo lacked, it to him that there was something about the Quay de la Vieille-Pelleterie, that there was a movement at that point, that the line of the parapet, out against the of the water was not and tranquil, like that of the other quays, but that it to the eye, like the of a river, or like the of a in motion.
This him as strange. He his attention. The movement to be the City. There was no light. It for some time on the quay; then it ceased, as though that which was were entering the of the island; then it stopped altogether, and the line of the and again.
At the moment when Quasimodo was in conjectures, it to him that the movement had re-appeared in the Rue du Parvis, which is into the city to the façade of Notre-Dame. At length, as was the darkness, he the of a from that street, and in an a crowd—of which nothing be in the that it was a crowd—spread over the Place.
This had a terror of its own. It is that this procession, which so of itself under darkness, a no less profound. Nevertheless, some noise must have it, were it only a trampling. But this noise did not our man, and this great multitude, of which he saw anything, and of which he nothing, though it was and moving so near him, produced upon him the of a of men, mute, impalpable, in a smoke. It to him, that he him a of men, and that he saw moving in the shadow.
Then his returned to him, the idea of an attempt against the presented itself once more to his mind. He was conscious, in a way, that a was approaching. At that moment he took with himself, with and than one would have from so a brain. Ought he to the gypsy? to make her escape? Whither? The were invested, the church on the river. No boat, no issue!—There was but one thing to be done; to allow himself to be killed on the of Notre-Dame, to at least until arrived, if it should arrive, and not to trouble la Esmeralda’s sleep. This once taken, he set to the enemy with more tranquillity.
The to every moment in the church square. Only, he that it must be making very little noise, since the on the Place closed. All at once, a up, and in an seven or eight passed over the of the crowd, their of in the shade. Quasimodo then in the Parvis a of men and in rags, with scythes, pikes, and partisans, thousand points glittered. Here and there black to the faces. He this populace, and that he all the who had him as Pope of the Fools some months previously. One man who a in one hand and a in the other, a post and to be them. At the same time the army evolutions, as though it were taking up its post around the church. Quasimodo up his and to the the towers, in order to a nearer view, and to out a means of defence.
Clopin Trouillefou, on in of the portal of Notre-Dame had, in fact, his in order of battle. Although he no resistance, he wished, like a general, to an order which would permit him to face, at need, a attack of the watch or the police. He had his in such a manner that, viewed from above and from a distance, one would have it the Roman triangle of the of Ecnomus, the boar’s of Alexander or the famous of Gustavus Adolphus. The of this triangle rested on the of the Place in such a manner as to the entrance of the Rue du Parvis; one of its Hôtel-Dieu, the other the Rue Saint-Pierre-aux-Bœufs. Clopin Trouillefou had himself at the with the Duke of Egypt, our friend Jehan, and the most of the scavengers.
An enterprise like that which the were now against Notre-Dame was not a very thing in the of the Middle Ages. What we now call the “police” did not then. In cities, in capitals, there no single, central, power. Feudalism had these great in a manner. A city was an of a thousand seigneuries, which it into of all and sizes. Hence, a thousand of police; that is to say, no police at all. In Paris, for example, of the hundred and forty-one who to a manor, there were five and twenty who to a and to justice, from the Bishop of Paris, who had five hundred streets, to the Prior of Notre-Dame Champs, who had four. All these the authority of the king only in name. All the right of over the roads. All were at home. Louis XI., that worker, who so the of the edifice, by Richelieu and Louis XIV. for the profit of royalty, and by Mirabeau for the of the people,—Louis XI. had an to this network of which Paris, by across them all two or three of police. Thus, in 1465, an order to the to light in their at nightfall, and to up their dogs under of death; in the same year, an order to close the in the with iron chains, and a to wear or of in the at night. But in a very time, all these at into abeyance. The permitted the wind to out their in the windows, and their dogs to stray; the iron were only in a of siege; the to wear no other than from the name of the Rue Coupe-Gueule to the name of the Rue-Coupe-Gorge[60] which is an progress. The old of standing; an of and each other all over the city, with each other, in one another, each other, on each other; a of watches, sub-watches and counter-watches, over which, with force, passed brigandage, rapine, and sedition. Hence, in this disorder, of on the part of the against a palace, a hôtel, or house in the most quarters, were not unheard-of occurrences. In the majority of such cases, the neighbors did not with the unless the to themselves. They stopped up their ears to the shots, closed their shutters, their doors, allowed the to be with or without the watch, and the next day it was said in Paris, “Étienne Barbette was open last night. The Marshal de Clermont was last night, etc.” Hence, not only the habitations, the Louvre, the Palace, the Bastille, the Tournelles, but residences, the Petit-Bourbon, the Hôtel de Sens, the Hôtel d’Angoulême, etc., had on their walls, and over their doors. Churches were by their sanctity. Some, among the number Notre-Dame, were fortified. The Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés was like a mansion, and more about it in than in bells. Its was still to be in 1610. To-day, its church remains.
Let us return to Notre-Dame.
When the were completed, and we must say, to the of discipline, that Clopin’s orders were in silence, and with precision, the of the band, on the of the church square, and his and voice, Notre-Dame, and his light, by the wind, and every moment by its own smoke, the façade of the church appear and the eye.
“To you, Louis de Beaumont, of Paris, in the Court of Parliament, I, Clopin Trouillefou, king of Thunes, Coësre, of Argot, of fools, I say: Our sister, for magic, taken in your church, you her and safety. Now the Court of Parliament to her once more there, and you to it; so that she would be to-morrow in the Grève, if God and the were not here. If your church is sacred, so is our sister; if our sister is not sacred, neither is your church. That is why we call upon you to return the girl if you wish to save your church, or we will take of the girl again and the church, which will be a good thing. In of which I here plant my banner, and may God you, of Paris.”
Quasimodo not, unfortunately, these with a of and majesty. A presented his banner to Clopin, who planted it two paving-stones. It was a from points a of meat.
That done, the King of Thunes and his over his army, a almost with their pikes. After a pause,—“Forward, my Sons!” he cried; “to work, locksmiths!”
Thirty men, square shouldered, and with pick-lock faces, from the ranks, with hammers, pincers, and of iron on their shoulders. They themselves to the door of the church, the steps, and were soon to be under the arch, at the door with and levers; a of them to help or look on. The eleven steps the portal were with them.
But the door firm. “The devil! ’tis hard and obstinate!” said one. “It is old, and its have bony,” said another. “Courage, comrades!” Clopin. “I my against a that you will have opened the door, the girl, and the a single is awake. Stay! I think I the lock up.”
Clopin was by a which re-sounded him at that moment. He round. An had just from above; it had a dozen on the with the of a cannon, in addition, here and there in the of beggars, who with of terror. In a twinkling, the narrow of the church were cleared. The locksmiths, although protected by the of the portal, the door and Clopin himself retired to a from the church.
“I had a narrow escape!” Jehan. “I the wind, of it, tête-de-bœuf! but Pierre the Slaughterer is slaughtered!”
It is to the with which upon the in company with this beam.
They for minutes with their in the air, more by that piece of than by the king’s twenty thousand archers.
“Satan!” the Duke of Egypt, “this of magic!”
“’Tis the moon which this at us,” said Andry the Red.
“Call the moon the friend of the Virgin, after that!” on François Chanteprune.
“A thousand popes!” Clopin, “you are all fools!” But he did not know how to the of the beam.
Meanwhile, nothing be on the façade, to the light of the did not reach. The in the middle of the enclosure, and were from the who had its shock, and who had been almost cut in twain, on the of the steps.
The King of Thunes, his passed, an which appeared to his companions.
“Throat of God! are the themselves? To the sack, then! to the sack!”
“To the sack!” the rabble, with a hurrah. A of and against the of the church followed.
At this detonation, the of the houses up; many were to open, and and hands appeared at the casements.
“Fire at the windows,” Clopin. The were closed, and the bourgeois, who had had time to a on this of and tumult, returned, with to their wives, themselves the witches’ was now being in the of Notre-Dame, or there was an of Burgundians, as in ’64. Then the husbands of theft; the wives, of rape; and all trembled.
“To the sack!” the thieves’ crew; but they not approach. They at the beam, they at the church. The did not stir, the its and air; but something the outcasts.
“To work, locksmiths!” Trouillefou. “Let the door be forced!”
No one took a step.
“Beard and belly!” said Clopin, “here be men of a beam.”
An old him—
“Captain, ’tis not the which us, ’tis the door, which is all with iron bars. Our are powerless against it.”
“What more do you want to it in?” Clopin.
“Ah! we ought to have a ram.”
The King of Thunes ran to the beam, and his upon it: “Here is one!” he exclaimed; “’tis the who send it to you.” And, making a in the direction of the church, “Thanks, canons!”
This piece of produced its effects,—the spell of the was broken. The their courage; soon the joist, like a by two hundred arms, was with against the great door which they had to down. At the of that long beam, in the half-light which the of the spread over the Place, thus by that of men who it at a against the church, one would have that he a with a thousand with the of stone.
At the of the beam, the door like an drum; it was not in, but the whole trembled, and the of the were to echo.
At the same moment, a of large to from the top of the façade on the assailants.
“The devil!” Jehan, “are the towers their on our heads?”
But the had been given, the King of Thunes had set the example. Evidently, the was himself, and they only the door with the more rage, in of the which right and left.
It was that all these one by one; but they each other closely. The always two at a time, one on their and one on their heads. There were which did not their blow, and a large of and and the of the who, now furious, replaced each other without intermission. The long to the door, at regular intervals, like the of a bell, the to rain down, the door to groan.
The reader has no that this which had the came from Quasimodo.
Chance had, unfortunately, the man.
When he had to the the towers, his ideas were all in confusion. He had up and along the for minutes like a madman, from above, the of to itself on the church, the safety of the from the or from God. The had to him of to the southern and the alarm, but he have set the in motion, Marie’s voice have a single clamor, was there not time to in the door of the church ten times over? It was the moment when the were upon it with their tools. What was to be done?
All at once, he that some had been at work all day repairing the wall, the timber-work, and the of the south tower. This was a of light. The was of stone, the of lead, the timber-work of wood. (That timber-work, so that it was called “the forest.”)
Quasimodo to that tower. The were, in fact, full of materials. There were of of stone, of lead in rolls, of laths, already with the saw, of plaster.
Time was pressing, The and were at work below. With a which the of tenfold, he one of the beams—the and heaviest; he pushed it out through a loophole, then, it again of the tower, he it along the of the which the platform, and let it into the abyss. The timber, that of a hundred and sixty feet, the wall, the carvings, many times on its centre, like the arm of a off alone through space. At last it the ground, the arose, and the black beam, as it from the pavement, a leaping.
Quasimodo the at the of the beam, like at the of a child. He took of their fright, and while they were a on the which had from heaven, and while they were out the of the on the with a of and buckshot, Quasimodo was up plaster, stones, and of stone, the of to the masons, on the of the from which the had already been hurled.
Thus, as soon as they to the door, the of of to fall, and it to them that the church itself was being over their heads.
Any one who have Quasimodo at that moment would have been frightened. Independently of the which he had upon the balustrade, he had a of on the itself. As fast as the on the were exhausted, he on the heap. Then he and rose, and rose again with activity. His gnome’s over the balustrade, then an fell, then another, then another. From time to time, he a with his eye, and when it did good execution, he said, “Hum!”
Meanwhile, the did not discouraged. The thick door on which they were their had already more than twenty times the weight of their battering-ram, by the of a hundred men. The panels cracked, the work into splinters, the hinges, at every blow, from their pins, the yawned, the to powder, ground the iron sheathing. Fortunately for Quasimodo, there was more iron than wood.
Nevertheless, he that the great door was yielding. Although he did not it, every of the in the of the church and it. From above he the vagabonds, with and rage, their at the façade; and on the gypsy’s account and his own he the of the which away above his in flocks.
His of was not to the assailants.
At this moment of anguish, he noticed, a little than the he was the thieves, two long which over the great door; the of these on the of the platform. An idea to him; he ran in search of a in his bellringer’s den, on this a great many of laths, and many of lead, which he had not so far, and having this in of the to the two gutters, he set it on fire with his lantern.
During this time, since the no longer fell, the to into the air. The bandits, like a pack of who are a into his lair, pressed the great door, all by the ram, but still standing. They were waiting with a for the great which should it open. They with each other in pressing as close as possible, in order to among the first, when it should open, into that cathedral, a where the of three centuries had been up. They each other with of and lust, of the crosses, the of brocade, the of gilt, the great of the choir, the festivals, the Christmasses with torches, the Easters with sunshine,—all those chandeliers, ciboriums, tabernacles, and reliquaries, the with a of gold and diamonds. Certainly, at that moment, and sufferers, doctors in stealing, and vagabonds, were much less of the than of Notre-Dame. We easily that for a number among them la Esmeralda was only a pretext, if needed pretexts.
All at once, at the moment when they were themselves the for a last effort, each one his and his in order to all his to the blow, a more still than that which had and the beam, rose among them. Those who did not out, those who were still alive, looked. Two of melted lead were from the of the into the of the rabble. That sea of men had just the metal, which had made, at the two points where it fell, two black and in the crowd, such as water would make in snow. Dying men, and with anguish, be there. Around these two there were of that rain, which over the and entered their like of fire. It was a fire which these with a thousand hailstones.
The was heartrending. They pell-mell, the upon the bodies, the as well as the most timid, and the was a second time.
All were to the top of the church. They there an sight. On the of the gallery, higher than the rose window, there was a great the two towers with of sparks, a vast, disordered, and flame, a of which was into the by the wind, from time to time. Below that fire, the with its against its glare, two with were that rain, out against the of the façade. As they approached the earth, these two of liquid lead spread out in sheaves, like water from the thousand of a watering-pot. Above the flame, the towers, two of each of which were visible in outline, the one black, the other red, still more with all the of the which they to the sky.
Their of and a aspect. The light of the them move to the eye. There were which had the air of laughing, which one one yelping, which at the fire, tarasques[61] which in the smoke. And among the thus from their sleep of by this flame, by this noise, there was one who walked about, and who was seen, from time to time, to pass across the of the pile, like a in of a candle.
Without doubt, this light would away, the of the of Bicêtre, to the of the towers of Notre-Dame over his heaths.
A among the outcasts, which nothing was heard, but the of of the up in their cloister, and more than in a stable, the of opened and still more closed, the hurly-burly of the houses and of the Hôtel-Dieu, the wind in the flame, the last death-rattle of the dying, and the of the rain of lead upon the pavement.
In the meanwhile, the had retired the of the Gondelaurier mansion, and were a of war.
The Duke of Egypt, seated on a post, the bonfire, at a of two hundred in the air, with religious terror. Clopin Trouillefou his with rage.
“Impossible to in!” he his teeth.
“An old, church!” the Bohemian, Mathias Hungadi Spicali.
“By the Pope’s whiskers!” on a soldier, who had once been in service, “here are church melted lead at you than the of Lectoure.”
“Do you see that and in of the fire?” the Duke of Egypt.
“Pardieu, ’tis that bellringer, ’tis Quasimodo,” said Clopin.
The Bohemian his head. “I tell you, that ’tis the Sabnac, the marquis, the of fortifications. He has the of an soldier, the of a lion. Sometimes he a horse. He men into stones, of which he towers. He fifty ’Tis he indeed; I him. Sometimes he is in a robe, after the Turkish fashion.”
“Where is Bellevigne de l’Étoile?” Clopin.
“He is dead.”
Andry the Red laughed in an way: “Notre-Dame is making work for the hospital,” said he.
“Is there, then, no way of this door,” the King of Thunes, his foot.
The Duke of Egypt pointed sadly to the two of lead which did not to the black façade, like two long of phosphorus.
“Churches have been to themselves thus all by themselves,” he with a sigh. “Saint-Sophia at Constantinople, years ago, to the earth three times in succession, the of Mahom, by her domes, which are her heads. Guillaume de Paris, who this one was a magician.”
“Must we then in fashion, like highwaymen?” said Clopin. “Must we our sister here, those will to-morrow.”
“And the sacristy, where there are wagon-loads of gold!” added a vagabond, name, we to say, we do not know.
“Beard of Mahom!” Trouillefou.
“Let us make another trial,” the vagabond.
Mathias Hungadi his head.
“We shall in by the door. We must the in the of the old fairy; a hole, a false postern, some joint or other.”
“Who will go with me?” said Clopin. “I shall go at it again. By the way, where is the little Jehan, who is so in iron?”
“He is dead, no doubt,” some one replied; “we no longer his laugh.”
The King of Thunes frowned: “So much the worse. There was a under that ironmongery. And Master Pierre Gringoire?”
“Captain Clopin,” said Andry the Red, “he away we the Pont-aux-Changeurs.”
Clopin his foot. “Gueule-Dieu! ’twas he who pushed us on hither, and he has us in the very middle of the job! Cowardly chatterer, with a for a helmet!”
“Captain Clopin,” said Andry the Red, who was Rue du Parvis, “yonder is the little scholar.”
“Praised be Pluto!” said Clopin. “But what the is he after him?”
It was, in fact, Jehan, who was as fast as his of a Paladin, and a long which on the pavement, would permit, more than an to a of twenty times longer than itself.
“Victory! Te Deum!” the scholar. “Here is the of the of Port Saint-Landry.”
Clopin approached him.
“Child, what do you to do, corne-dieu! with this ladder?”
“I have it,” Jehan, panting. “I where it was under the of the lieutenant’s house. There’s a there I know, who thinks me as as Cupido. I use of her to the ladder, and I have the ladder, Pasque-Mahom! The girl came to open the door to me in her shift.”
“Yes,” said Clopin, “but what are you going to do with that ladder?”
Jehan at him with a malicious, look, and his like castanets. At that moment he was sublime. On his he one of those of the century, which the enemy with their crests. His with ten iron beaks, so that Jehan have with Nestor’s Homeric the title of δεκέμβολος.
“What do I to do with it, king of Thunes? Do you see that of which have such expressions, yonder, above the three portals?”
“Yes. Well?”
“’Tis the of the kings of France.”
“What is that to me?” said Clopin.
“Wait! At the end of that there is a door which is otherwise than with a latch, and with this I ascend, and I am in the church.”
“Child let me be the to ascend.”
“No, comrade, the is mine. Come, you shall be the second.”
“May Beelzebub you!” said Clopin, “I won’t be second to anybody.”
“Then a ladder, Clopin!”
Jehan set out on a across the Place, his and shouting: “Follow me, lads!”
In an the was raised, and against the of the gallery, above one of the doors. The of vagabonds, loud acclamations, to its to ascend. But Jehan his right, and was the to set on the rungs. The passage was long. The of the kings of France is to-day about sixty above the pavement. The eleven steps of the the door, it still higher. Jehan slowly, a good by his armor, his in one hand, and to a with the other. When he the middle of the ladder, he a at the outcasts, with which the steps were strewn. “Alas!” said he, “here is a of of the book of the Iliad!” Then he his ascent. The him. There was one on every rung. At the of this line of backs, as they rose through the gloom, one would have it a with scales, which was itself in of the church. Jehan who the head, and who was whistling, the illusion.
The the of the gallery, and over it nimbly, to the of the whole tribe. Thus master of the citadel, he a of joy, and halted, petrified. He had just of Quasimodo in the dark, with eye, one of the of the kings.
Before a second a on the gallery, the to the of the ladder, without a word, the ends of the two with his powerful hands, them, pushed them out from the wall, the long and ladder, with from top to for a moment, in the of of anguish, then suddenly, with force, this of men into the Place. There was a moment when the most trembled. The ladder, backwards, and for an instant, and to hesitate, then wavered, then suddenly, a of a circle eighty in radius, upon the with its of ruffians, more than a when its break. There an imprecation, then all was still, and a were seen, over the of dead.
A of and the of among the besiegers. Quasimodo, impassive, with on the balustrade, looked on. He had the air of an old, bushy-headed king at his window.
As for Jehan Frollo, he was in a position. He himself in the with the bellringer, alone, from his by a eighty high. While Quasimodo was with the ladder, the had to the which he to be open. It was not. The man had closed it him when he entered the gallery. Jehan had then himself a king, not to breathe, and upon the a gaze, like the man, who, when the wife of the of a menagerie, one to a love rendezvous, the which he was to climb, and himself to with a white bear.
For the moments, the man paid no to him; but at last he his head, and up. He had just of the scholar.
Jehan prepared himself for a shock, but the man motionless; only he had the and was looking at him.
“Ho ho!” said Jehan, “what do you by at me with that and eye?”
As he spoke thus, the his crossbow.
“Quasimodo!” he cried, “I am going to your surname: you shall be called the man.”
The sped. The vireton[62] and entered the hunchback’s left arm. Quasimodo appeared no more moved by it than by a to King Pharamond. He his hand on the arrow, it from his arm, and it across his big knee; then he let the two pieces on the floor, than them down. But Jehan had no opportunity to fire a second time. The broken, Quasimodo heavily, like a grasshopper, and he upon the scholar, was against the by the blow.
Then in that gloom, the light of the torches, a terrible thing was seen.
Quasimodo had with his left hand the two arms of Jehan, who did not offer any resistance, so did he that he was lost. With his right hand, the man one by one, in silence, with slowness, all the pieces of his armor, the sword, the daggers, the helmet, the cuirass, the leg pieces. One would have said that it was a monkey taking the from a nut. Quasimodo the scholar’s iron at his feet, piece by piece. When the himself disarmed, stripped, weak, and in those terrible hands, he no attempt to speak to the man, but to laugh in his face, and to sing with his of a child of sixteen, the then popular ditty:—
“Elle habillée,
La de Cambrai;
Marafin l’a pillée....”[63]
He did not finish. Quasimodo was on the of the gallery, the by the with one hand and him over the like a sling; then a like that of a in with a was heard, and something was to which a third of the way in its fall, on a in the architecture. It was a which there, double, its broken, its empty.
A of rose among the vagabonds.
“Vengeance!” Clopin. “To the sack!” the multitude. “Assault! assault!”
There came a howl, in which were all tongues, all dialects, all accents. The death of the a to that crowd. It was with shame, and the of having been so long in check a church by a hunchback. Rage ladders, the torches, and, at the of a minutes, Quasimodo, in despair, that terrible on all to the of Notre-Dame. Those who had no had ropes; those who had no by the of the carvings. They from each other’s rags. There were no means of that of faces; these ruddy; their were with sweat; their lightnings; all these grimaces, all these to Quasimodo. One would have said that some other church had to the of Notre-Dame its gorgons, its dogs, its drées, its demons, its most sculptures. It was like a of on the of the façade.
Meanwhile, the Place was with a thousand torches. This of confusion, till now in darkness, was with light. The was resplendent, and a on the sky; the on the was still burning, and the city away. The of the two towers, on the of Paris, and a large of black in this light. The city to be aroused. Alarm in the distance. The howled, panted, swore, climbed; and Quasimodo, powerless against so many enemies, for the gypsy, the nearer and nearer to his gallery, for a miracle, and his arms in despair.
