THE LITTLE SHOE.
La Esmeralda was sleeping at the moment when the the church.
Soon the ever-increasing around the edifice, and the of her which had been awakened, had her from her slumbers. She had sat up, she had listened, she had looked; then, by the light and noise, she had from her to see. The of the Place, the which was moving in it, the of that assault, that crowd, like a cloud of frogs, in the gloom, the of that multitude, those red and each other in the like the which the of marshes, this whole produced upon her the of a the of the witches’ and the of the church. Imbued from her very with the of the Bohemian tribe, her was that she had the beings to the night, in their of witchcraft. Then she ran in terror to in her cell, of her some less terrible nightmare.
But little by little the of terror had been dissipated; from the noise, and from many other of reality, she herself not by spectres, but by beings. Then her fear, though it did not increase, its character. She had of the possibility of a popular to tear her from her asylum. The idea of once more life, hope, Phœbus, who was present in her future, the of her condition, cut off, no support, her abandonment, her isolation,—these and a thousand others her. She upon her knees, with her on her bed, her hands over her head, full of and tremors, and, although a gypsy, an idolater, and a pagan, she to with sobs, from the good Christian God, and to pray to our Lady, her hostess. For if one in nothing, there are moments in life when one is always of the religion of the temple which is nearest at hand.
She thus for a very long time, in truth, more than praying, by the ever-closer of that multitude, nothing of this outburst, of what was being plotted, what was being done, what they wanted, but a terrible issue.
In the of this anguish, she some one walking near her. She round. Two men, one of a lantern, had just entered her cell. She a cry.
“Fear nothing,” said a voice which was not unknown to her, “it is I.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Pierre Gringoire.”
This name her. She her once more, and the in very fact. But there him a black from to foot, which her by its silence.
“Oh!” Gringoire in a of reproach, “Djali me you!”
The little had not, in fact, waited for Gringoire to his name. No sooner had he entered than it itself against his knees, the with and with white hairs, for it was its hair. Gringoire returned the caresses.
“Who is this with you?” said the gypsy, in a low voice.
“Be at ease,” Gringoire. “’Tis one of my friends.” Then the setting his on the ground, upon the stones, and enthusiastically, as he pressed Djali in his arms,—
“Oh! ’tis a beast, more no doubt, for it’s than for its size, but ingenious, subtle, and as a grammarian! Let us see, my Djali, any of tricks? How Master Jacques Charmolue?...”
The man in black did not allow him to finish. He approached Gringoire and him by the shoulder.
Gringoire rose.
“’Tis true,” said he: “I that we are in haste. But that is no master, for with people in this manner. My dear and child, your life is in danger, and Djali’s also. They want to you again. We are your friends, and we have come to save you. Follow us.”
“Is it true?” she in dismay.
“Yes, perfectly true. Come quickly!”
“I am willing,” she stammered. “But why not your friend speak?”
“Ah!” said Gringoire, “’tis his father and mother were people who him of a temperament.”
She was to herself with this explanation. Gringoire took her by the hand; his up the and walked on in front. Fear the girl. She allowed herself to be away. The them, frisking, so at Gringoire again that it him every moment by its his legs.
“Such is life,” said the philosopher, every time that he came near down; “’tis often our best friends who us to be overthrown.”
They the of the towers, the church, full of and solitude, and all with uproar, which a contrast, and into the of the by the red door. The was deserted; the had to the bishop’s in order to pray together; the was empty, a were in dark corners. They their steps the door which opened from this upon the Terrain. The man in black opened it with a key which he had about him. Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a of land by on the of the City and to the chapter of Notre-Dame, which the on the east, the church. They this perfectly deserted. There was here less in the air. The of the outcasts’ them more and less clamorously. The fresh which the of a stream, the of the only tree planted on the point of the Terrain, with a noise that was already perceptible. But they were still very close to danger. The nearest to them were the bishop’s and the church. It was that there was great in the bishop’s palace. Its was all with lights which from window to window; as, when one has just paper, there a of in which a thousand courses. Beside them, the towers of Notre-Dame, thus viewed from behind, with the long above which they cut out in black against the red and light which the Parvis, two of some fire-grate.
What was to be of Paris on all the in a with light. Rembrandt has such to his pictures.
The man with the walked to the point of the Terrain. There, at the very of the water, the of a of with laths, a low spread out a thin like the of an hand. Behind, in the by this trellis, a little concealed. The man a to Gringoire and his to enter. The them. The man was the last to step in. Then he cut the boat’s moorings, pushed it from the with a long boat-hook, and, two oars, seated himself in the bow, with all his might midstream. The Seine is very at this point, and he had a good of trouble in the point of the island.
Gringoire’s on entering the was to place the on his knees. He took a position in the stern; and the girl, the with an uneasiness, seated herself close to the poet.
When our the sway, he his hands and Djali the horns.
“Oh!” said he, “now we are safe, all four of us.”
He added with the air of a thinker, “One is sometimes to fortune, sometimes to ruse, for the happy issue of great enterprises.”
The its way slowly the right shore. The girl the unknown man with terror. He had off the light of his dark lantern. A be of him in the obscurity, in the of the boat, like a spectre. His cowl, which was still lowered, a of mask; and every time that he spread his arms, upon which large black sleeves, as he rowed, one would have said they were two bat’s wings. Moreover, he had not yet a word or a syllable. No other noise was in the than the of the oars, with the of the water along her sides.
“On my soul!” Gringoire suddenly, “we are as and as owls! We the of Pythagoreans or fishes! Pasque-Dieu! my friends, I should like to have some one speak to me. The voice is music to the ear. ’Tis not I who say that, but Didymus of Alexandria, and they are words. Assuredly, Didymus of Alexandria is no philosopher.—One word, my child! say but one word to me, I you. By the way, you had a and little pout; do you still make it? Do you know, my dear, that full over all places of asylum, and that you were a great in your little at Notre-Dame? Alas! the little bird its in the of the crocodile.—Master, here is the moon re-appearing. If only they do not us. We are doing a thing in saving mademoiselle, and yet we should be by order of the king if we were caught. Alas! are taken by two handles. That is with in one which is in another. He Cicero who Catiline. Is it not so, master? What say you to this philosophy? I by instinct, by nature, ut geometriam.—Come! no one me. What moods you two are in! I must do all the talking alone. That is what we call a in tragedy.—Pasque-Dieu! I must you that I have just the king, Louis XI., and that I have this from him,—Pasque-Dieu! They are still making a in the city.—’Tis a villanous, old king. He is all in furs. He still me the money for my epithalamium, and he came a of me this evening, which would have been very to me.—He is men of merit. He ought to read the four books of Salvien of Cologne, Adversus Avaritiam. In truth! ’Tis a king in his with men of letters, and one who very cruelties. He is a sponge, to money from the people. His saving is like the which with the of all the other members. Hence against the of the times against the prince. Under this and sire, the with the hung, the with blood, the like over full bellies. This king one hand which grasps, and one which hangs. He is the of Dame Tax and Monsieur Gibbet. The great are of their dignities, and the little with fresh oppressions. He is an prince. I love not this monarch. And you, master?”
The man in black let the on. He to against the and narrow current, which the of the City and the of the of Notre-Dame, which we call to-day the Isle St. Louis.
“By the way, master!” Gringoire suddenly. “At the moment when we on the Parvis, through the outcasts, did your that little your man was just on the of the of the kings? I am near and I not him. Do you know who he be?”
The answered not a word. But he rowing, his arms as though broken, his on his breast, and la Esmeralda him convulsively. She shuddered. She had such before.
The boat, to itself, for minutes with the stream. But the man in black himself, the once more and to against the current. He the point of the Isle of Notre Dame, and for the landing-place of the Port au Foin.
“Ah!” said Gringoire, “yonder is the Barbeau mansion.—Stay, master, look: that group of black which make such yonder, above that of black, grimy, dirty clouds, where the moon is and spread out like the of an egg is broken.—’Tis a mansion. There is a with a small full of very well enrichments. Above, you can see the tower, very pierced. There is also a garden, which of a pond, an aviary, an echo, a mall, a labyrinth, a house for wild beasts, and a quantity of very to Venus. There is also a of a tree which is called ‘the lewd,’ it the of a famous and a of France, who was a and a wit.—Alas! we are to a as a plot of or a to the garden of the Louvre. What it, after all? life, for the great as well as for us, is a mixture of good and evil. Pain is always by the of joy, the by the dactyl.—Master, I must relate to you the history of the Barbeau mansion. It ends in fashion. It was in 1319, in the of Philippe V., the of the kings of France. The of the is that the of the are and malignant. Let us not our too long on our neighbor’s wife, our may be by her beauty. Fornication is a very thought. Adultery is a into the of others—Ohé! the noise is redoubling!”
The around Notre-Dame was, in fact, increasing. They listened. Cries of victory were with distinctness. All at once, a hundred torches, the light of which upon the of men at arms, spread over the church at all heights, on the towers, on the galleries, on the buttresses. These to be in search of something; and soon the distinctly:—“The gypsy! the sorceress! death to the gypsy!”
The girl her upon her hands, and the unknown to the shore. Meanwhile our reflected. He the in his arms, and away from the gypsy, who pressed closer and closer to him, as though to the only which to her.
It is that Gringoire was perplexity. He was that the also, “according to law,” would be if recaptured; which would be a great pity, Djali! that he had thus two to him; that his asked no than to take of the gypsy. A his thoughts, in which, like the Jupiter of the Iliad, he in turn the and the goat; and he looked at them alternately with with tears, saying his teeth:
“But I cannot save you both!”
A them that the had the land at last. The still the city. The unknown rose, approached the gypsy, and to take her arm to her to alight. She him and to the of Gringoire, who, in his turn, in the goat, almost her. Then she alone from the boat. She was so that she did not know what she did or she was going. Thus she for a moment, stunned, the water past; when she returned to her senses, she herself alone on the with the unknown. It that Gringoire had taken of the moment of to away with the into the of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l’Eau.
The when she herself alone with this man. She to speak, to out, to call Gringoire; her was in her mouth, and no left her lips. All at once she the stranger’s hand on hers. It was a strong, cold hand. Her teeth chattered, she than the of moonlight which her. The man spoke not a word. He to the Place de Grève, her by the hand.
At that moment, she had a that is an force. She had no more left in her, she allowed herself to be along, while he walked. At this spot the ascended. But it to her as though she were a slope.
She about her on all sides. Not a single passer-by. The was deserted. She no sound, she no people moving save in the and city, from which she was only by an arm of the Seine, and her name her, with of “Death!” The of Paris was spread around her in great of shadows.
Meanwhile, the to her along with the same and the same rapidity. She had no of any of the places where she was walking. As she passed a window, she an effort, up suddenly, and out, “Help!”
The who was at the window opened it, appeared there in his shirt with his lamp, at the with a air, some which she did not understand, and closed his again. It was her last of extinguished.
The man in black did not a syllable; he her firmly, and set out again at a pace. She no longer resisted, but him, broken.
From time to time she called together a little strength, and said, in a voice by the of the and the of their flight, “Who are you? Who are you?” He no reply.
They thus, still along the quay, at a square. It was the Grève. In the middle, a of black, was visible; it was the gallows. She all this, and saw where she was.
The man halted, her and his cowl.
“Oh!” she stammered, almost petrified, “I well that it was he again!”
It was the priest. He looked like the of himself; that is an of the moonlight, it as though one only the of in that light.
“Listen!” he said to her; and she at the of that voice which she had not for a long time. He speaking with those and jerks, which convulsions. “Listen! we are here. I am going to speak to you. This is the Grève. This is an point. Destiny us to one another. I am going to decide as to your life; you will decide as to my soul. Here is a place, here is a night which one sees nothing. Then to me. I am going to tell you.... In the place, speak not to me of your Phœbus. (As he spoke thus he to and fro, like a man who cannot in one place, and her after him.) Do not speak to me of him. Do you see? If you that name, I know not what I shall do, but it will be terrible.”
Then, like a which its centre of gravity, he once more, but his no less agitation. His voice and lower.
“Do not turn your thus. Listen to me. It is a matter. In the place, here is what has happened.—All this will not be laughed at. I it to you.—What was I saying? Remind me! Oh!—There is a of Parliament which you to the scaffold. I have just you from their hands. But they are you. Look!”
He his arm toward the City. The search seemed, in fact, to be still in progress there. The nearer; the tower of the lieutenant’s house, opposite the Grève, was full of and light, and soldiers be on the opposite with and these cries, “The gypsy! Where is the gypsy! Death! Death!”
“You see that they are in of you, and that I am not to you. I love you.—Do not open your mouth; from speaking to me rather, if it be only to tell me that you me. I have up my mind not to that again.—I have just saved you.—Let me first. I can save you wholly. I have prepared everything. It is yours at will. If you wish, I can do it.”
He off violently. “No, that is not what I should say!”
As he with step and her also, for he did not her, he walked to the gallows, and pointed to it with his finger,—
“Choose us two,” he said, coldly.
She herself from his hands and at the of the gibbet, that support, then she her head, and looked at the over her shoulder. One would have said that she was a Holy Virgin at the of the cross. The motionless, his still toward the gibbet, his like a statue. At length the said to him,—
“It me less than you do.”
Then he allowed his arm to slowly, and at the in dejection.
“If these speak,” he murmured, “yes, they would say that a very man here.”
He on. The girl, the gallows, in her long hair, let him speak on without interruption. He now had a and which sadly with the of his features.
“I love you. Oh! how true that is! So nothing comes of that fire which my heart! Alas! girl, night and day—yes, night and day I tell you,—it is torture. Oh! I too much, my child. ’Tis a thing of compassion, I you. You see that I speak to you. I wish that you should no longer this of me.—After all, if a man loves a woman, ’tis not his fault!—Oh, my God!—What! So you will me? You will always me? All is over then. It is that which me evil, do you see? and to myself.—You will not look at me! You are of something else, perchance, while I here and talk to you, on the of for of us! Above all things, do not speak to me of the officer!—I would myself at your knees, I would not your feet, but the earth which is under your feet; I would like a child, I would tear from my not words, but my very and vitals, to tell you that I love you;—all would be useless, all!—And yet you have nothing in your but what is and merciful. You are with the most mildness; you are sweet, good, pitiful, and charming. Alas! You no will for any one but me alone! Oh! what a fatality!”
He his in his hands. The girl him weeping. It was for the time. Thus and by sobs, he was more and more than when on his knees. He thus for a time.
“Come!” he said, these passed, “I have no more words. I had, however, well as to what you would say. Now I and and at the moment, I of something us, and I stammer. Oh! I shall upon the if you do not take on me, on yourself. Do not us both. If you only how much I love you! What a is mine! Oh! what of all virtue! What of myself! A doctor, I at science; a gentleman, I my own name; a priest, I make of the a pillow of sensuality, I in the of my God! all this for thee, enchantress! to be more of hell! And you will not have the apostate! Oh! let me tell you all! more still, something more horrible, oh! Yet more horrible!...”
As he these last words, his air distracted. He was for a moment, and resumed, as though speaking to himself, and in a voice,—
“Cain, what done with brother?”
There was another silence, and he on—
“What have I done with him, Lord? I him, I him, I him, I loved him, I him, and I have him! Yes, Lord, they have just his my on the of house, and it is of me, of this woman, of her.”
His was wild. His voice weaker; he many times, yet, mechanically, at long intervals, like a its last vibration: “Because of her.—Because of her.”
Then his no longer any sound; but his still moved. All at once he together, like something crumbling, and on the earth, with his on his knees.
A touch from the girl, as she her from under him, him to himself. He passed his hand slowly over his cheeks, and for moments at his fingers, which were wet, “What!” he murmured, “I have wept!”
And to the with anguish,—
“Alas! you have looked on at my tears! Child, do you know that those are of lava? Is it true? Nothing touches when it comes from the man one not love. If you were to see me die, you would laugh. Oh! I do not wish to see you die! One word! A single word of pardon! Say not that you love me, say only that you will do it; that will suffice; I will save you. If not—oh! the hour is passing. I you by all that is sacred, do not wait until I shall have to again, like that which also you! Reflect that I the of of us in my hand, that I am mad,—it is terrible,—that I may let all go to destruction, and that there is us a abyss, girl, my will yours to all eternity! One word of kindness! Say one word! only one word!”
She opened her mouth to answer him. He himself on his to with the word, possibly a one, which was on the point of from her lips. She said to him, “You are an assassin!”
The her in his arms with fury, and to laugh with an laugh.
“Well, yes, an assassin!” he said, “and I will have you. You will not have me for your slave, you shall have me for your master. I will have you! I have a den, I will you. You will me, you will be to me, or I will deliver you up! You must die, my beauty, or be mine! to the priest! to the apostate! to the assassin! this very night, do you hear? Come! joy; me, girl! The or my bed!”
His with and rage. His the girl’s neck. She in his arms. He her with kisses.
“Do not bite me, monster!” she cried. “Oh! the foul, monk! me! I will tear out and it in by the handful!”
He reddened, pale, then her and at her with a air. She herself victorious, and continued,—
“I tell you that I to my Phœbus, that ’tis Phœbus I love, that ’tis Phœbus who is handsome! you are old, priest! you are ugly! Begone!”
He gave to a cry, like the to a iron is applied. “Die, then!” he said, his teeth. She saw his terrible look and to fly. He her once more, he her, he her on the ground, and walked with the of the Tour-Roland, her after him along the by her hands.
On there, he to her,—
“For the last time, will you be mine?”
She with emphasis,—
“No!”
Then he in a loud voice,—
“Gudule! Gudule! here is the gypsy! take your vengeance!”
The girl herself by the elbow. She looked. A arm was from an opening in the wall, and her like a hand of iron.
“Hold her well,” said the priest; “’tis the escaped. Release her not. I will go in search of the sergeants. You shall see her hanged.”
