Part-2
A laugh from the of the to these words—“Hah! hah! hah!”—The the retire in the direction of the Pont Notre-Dame. A was in that direction.
The girl had the recluse. Panting with terror, she to herself. She writhed, she many of and despair, but the other her with strength. The and which her, on her and met around it. One would have said that this hand was to her arm. It was more than a chain, more than a fetter, more than a ring of iron, it was a pair of with intelligence, which from the wall.
She against the exhausted, and then the of death took of her. She of the of life, of youth, of the view of heaven, the of nature, of her love for Phœbus, of all that was and all that was approaching, of the who was her, of the who was to come, of the which was there. Then she terror to the very of her and she the laugh of the recluse, saying to her in a very low tone: “Hah! hah! hah! you are going to be hanged!”
She a look the window, and she the of the through the bars.
“What have I done to you?” she said, almost lifeless.
The did not reply, but to with a irritated, intonation: “Daughter of Egypt! of Egypt! of Egypt!”
The Esmeralda her her hair, that it was no being she had to with.
All at once the exclaimed, as though the gypsy’s question had taken all this time to her brain,—“‘What have you done to me?’ you say! Ah! what have you done to me, gypsy! Well! listen.—I had a child! you see! I had a child! a child, I tell you!—a little girl!—my Agnès!” she on wildly, something in the dark.—“Well! do you see, of Egypt? they took my child from me; they my child; they ate my child. That is what you have done to me.”
The girl like a lamb,—
“Alas! I was not then!”
“Oh! yes!” returned the recluse, “you must have been born. You were among them. She would be the same age as you! so!—I have been here fifteen years; fifteen years have I suffered; fifteen years have I prayed; fifteen years have I my against these four walls—I tell you that ’twas the who her from me, do you that? and who ate her with their teeth.—Have you a heart? a child playing, a child sucking; a child sleeping. It is so a thing!—Well! that, that is what they took from me, what they killed. The good God it well! To-day, it is my turn; I am going to eat the gypsy.—Oh! I would bite you well, if the did not prevent me! My is too large!—Poor little one! while she was asleep! And if they her up when they took her, in she might cry; I was not there!—Ah! mothers, you my child! come see your own.”
Then she to laugh or to her teeth, for the two each other in that face. The day was to dawn. An this scene, and the more and more in the square. On the other side, in the direction of the of Notre-Dame, the girl that she the of approaching.
“Madam,” she cried, her hands and on her knees, dishevelled, distracted, with fright; “madam! have pity! They are coming. I have done nothing to you. Would you wish to see me die in this fashion your very eyes? You are pitiful, I am sure. It is too frightful. Let me make my escape. Release me! Mercy. I do not wish to die like that!”
“Give me my child!” said the recluse.
“Mercy! Mercy!”
“Give me my child!”
“Release me, in the name of heaven!”
“Give me my child!”
Again the girl fell; exhausted, broken, and having already the of a person in the grave.
“Alas!” she faltered, “you your child, I my parents.”
“Give me my little Agnès!” Gudule. “You do not know where she is? Then die!—I will tell you. I was a woman of the town, I had a child, they took my child. It was the gypsies. You see that you must die. When your mother, the gypsy, comes to you, I shall say to her: ‘Mother, look at that gibbet!—Or, give me my child. Do you know where she is, my little daughter? Stay! I will you. Here is her shoe, all that is left me of her. Do you know where its is? If you know, tell me, and if it is only at the other end of the world, I will to it on my knees.”
As she spoke thus, with her other arm through the window, she the the little shoe. It was already light to its shape and its colors.
“Let me see that shoe,” said the gypsy, quivering. “God! God!”
And at the same time, with her hand which was at liberty, she opened the little with green glass, which she about her neck.
“Go on, go on!” Gudule, “search your demon’s amulet!”
All at once, she stopped short, in every limb, and in a voice which from the very of her being: “My daughter!”
The had just from the a little shoe to the other. To this little shoe was a on which was this charm,—
Quand le retrouveras
Ta mère te bras.[68]
Quicker than a of lightning, the had the two shoes together, had read the and had put close to the of the window her with as she cried,—
“My daughter! my daughter!”
“My mother!” said the gypsy.
Here we are to the of the scene. The and the iron were them. “Oh! the wall!” the recluse. “Oh! to see her and not to her! Your hand! your hand!”
The girl passed her arm through the opening; the herself on that hand, pressed her to it and there remained, in that kiss, no other of life than a which her from time to time. In the meanwhile, she in torrents, in silence, in the dark, like a rain at night. The mother out in upon that hand the dark and well of tears, which her, and into which her had filtered, by drop, for fifteen years.
All at once she rose, her long from her brow, and without a word, to shake the of her cell, with hands, more than a lioness. The firm. Then she to in the of her a stone, which her as a pillow, and it against them with such that one of the broke, thousands of sparks. A second the old iron which the window. Then with her two hands, she and the of the bars. There are moments when woman’s hands strength.
A passage broken, less than a minute was for her to her by the middle of her body, and her into her cell. “Come let me you out of the abyss,” she murmured.
When her was the cell, she her on the ground, then her up again, and her in her arms as though she were still only her little Agnès, she walked to and in her little room, intoxicated, frantic, joyous, out, singing, her daughter, talking to her, into laughter, melting into tears, all at once and with vehemence.
“My daughter! my daughter!” she said. “I have my daughter! here she is! The good God has her to me! Ha you! come all of you! Is there any one there to see that I have my daughter? Lord Jesus, how she is! You have me wait fifteen years, my good God, but it was in order to give her to me beautiful.—Then the did not eat her! Who said so? My little daughter! my little daughter! Kiss me. Those good gypsies! I love the gypsies!—It is you! That was what my every time that you passed by. And I took that for hatred! Forgive me, my Agnès, me. You me very malicious, did you not? I love you. Have you still the little mark on your neck? Let us see. She still has it. Oh! you are beautiful! It was I who gave you those big eyes, mademoiselle. Kiss me. I love you. It is nothing to me that other mothers have children; I them now. They have only to come and see. Here is mine. See her neck, her eyes, her hair, her hands. Find me anything as as that! Oh! I promise you she will have lovers, that she will! I have for fifteen years. All my has and has to her. Kiss me.”
She to her a thousand other remarks, their beauty, the girl’s to the point of making her blush, her with her hand, her foot, her knee, her brow, her eyes, was in over everything. The girl let her have her way, at and very low and with tenderness, “My mother!”
“Do you see, my little girl,” the recluse, her with kisses, “I shall love you dearly? We will go away from here. We are going to be very happy. I have something in Reims, in our country. You know Reims? Ah! no, you do not know it; you were too small! If you only how you were at the age of four months! Tiny that people came from Epernay, which is seven away, to see! We shall have a field, a house. I will put you to sleep in my bed. My God! my God! who would this? I have my daughter!”
“Oh, my mother!” said the girl, at length to speak in her emotion, “the woman told me so. There was a good of our who died last year, and who always for me like a nurse. It was she who this little about my neck. She always said to me: ‘Little one, this well! ’Tis a treasure. It will to mother once again. Thou mother about neck.’—The it!”
The again pressed her in her arms.
“Come, let me you! You say that prettily. When we are in the country, we will place these little shoes on an Jesus in the church. We that to the good, Virgin. What a voice you have! When you spoke to me just now, it was music! Ah! my Lord God! I have my child again! But is this credible? Nothing will kill one—or I should have died of joy.”
And then she to clap her hands again and to laugh and to out: “We are going to be so happy!”
At that moment, the with the of arms and a of which to be from the Pont Notre-Dame, and along the quay. The herself with into the arms of the nun.
“Save me! save me! mother! they are coming!”
“Oh, heaven! what are you saying? I had forgotten! They are in of you! What have you done?”
“I know not,” the child; “but I am to die.”
“To die!” said Gudule, as though by lightning; “to die!” she slowly, at her with eyes.
“Yes, mother,” the girl, “they want to kill me. They are to me. That is for me! Save me! save me! They are coming! Save me!”
The for moments and petrified, then she moved her in of doubt, and to a of laughter, but with that terrible laugh which had come to her,—
“Ho! ho! no! ’tis a of which you are telling me. Ah, yes! I her, that fifteen years, and then I her again, and that a minute! And they would take her from me again! And now, when she is beautiful, when she is up, when she speaks to me, when she loves me; it is now that they would come to her, my very eyes, and I her mother! Oh! no! these are not possible. The good God not permit such as that.”
Here the appeared to halt, and a voice was to say in the distance,—
“This way, Messire Tristan! The says that we shall her at the Rat-Hole.” The noise of the again.
The to her with a of despair. “Fly! fly! my child! All comes to me. You are right. It is your death! Horror! Maledictions! Fly!”
She her through the window, and it again hastily.
“Remain,” she said, in a low, curt, and tone, as she pressed the hand of the gypsy, who was more than alive. “Remain! Do not breathe! There are soldiers everywhere. You cannot out. It is too light.”
Her were and burning. She for a moment; but she the hurriedly, and now and then to out of her hairs, which she with her teeth.
Suddenly she said: “They near. I will speak with them. Hide in this corner. They will not see you. I will tell them that you have your escape. That I you, i’ faith!”
She set her (down for she was still her), in one of the which was not visible from without. She her down, her so that neither hand from the shadow, her black which she spread over her white to it, in of her her and her stone, the only articles of which she possessed, that this and would her. And when this was she more tranquil, and to pray. The day, which was only dawning, still left many in the Rat-Hole.
At that moment, the voice of the priest, that voice, passed very close to the cell, crying,—
“This way, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers.”
At that name, at that voice, la Esmeralda, in her corner, a movement.
“Do not stir!” said Gudule.
She had when a of men, swords, and around the cell. The mother rose and to post herself her window, in order to stop it up. She a large of men, and foot, up on the Grève.
The dismounted, and came toward her.
“Old woman!” said this man, who had an face, “we are in search of a to her; we were told that you had her.”
The mother as an air as she could, and replied,—
“I know not what you mean.”
The other resumed, “Tête Dieu! What was it that said? Where is he?”
“Monseigneur,” said a soldier, “he has disappeared.”
“Come, now, old madwoman,” the again, “do not lie. A was in to you. What have you done with her?”
The did not wish to all, for of suspicion, and in a and tone,—
“If you are speaking of a big girl who was put into my hands a while ago, I will tell you that she me, and that I her. There! Leave me in peace.”
The a of disappointment. “Don’t to me, old spectre!” said he. “My name is Tristan l’Hermite, and I am the king’s gossip. Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?” He added, as he at the Place de Grève around him, “’Tis a name which has an echo here.”
“You might be Satan the Hermit,” Gudule, who was hope, “but I should have nothing else to say to you, and I should be of you.”
“Tête-Dieu,” said Tristan, “here is a crone! Ah! So the girl fled! And in which direction did she go?” Gudule in a careless tone,—
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan his and a to his to prepare to set out on the again. The once more.
“Monseigneur,” said an archer, “ask the old why the of her window are in this manner.”
This question again to the of the mother. Nevertheless, she did not all presence of mind.
“They have always been thus,” she stammered.
“Bah!” the archer, “only yesterday they still a black cross, which devotion.”
Tristan a at the recluse.
“I think the old is confused!”
The woman that all on her self-possession, and, although with death in her soul, she to grin. Mothers such strength.
“Bah!” said she, “the man is drunk. ’Tis more than a year since the of a against my window and in the grating. And how I the carter, too.”
“’Tis true,” said another archer, “I was there.”
Always and people are to be who have everything. This from the re-encouraged the recluse, this was to an on the of a knife. But she was to a of and alarm.
“If it was a which did it,” the soldier, “the of the should be inwards, while they actually are pushed outwards.”
“Hé! hé!” said Tristan to the soldier, “you have the nose of an of the Châtelet. Reply to what he says, old woman.”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, to bay, and in a voice that was full of in despite of her efforts, “I to you, monseigneur, that ’twas a which those bars. You the man who saw it. And then, what has that to do with your gypsy?”
“Hum!” Tristan.
“The devil!” on the soldier, by the provost’s praise, “these of the iron are perfectly fresh.”
Tristan his head. She pale.
“How long ago, say you, did the do it?”
“A month, a fortnight, perhaps, monseigneur, I know not.”
“She said more than a year,” the soldier.
“That is suspicious,” said the provost.
“Monseigneur!” she cried, still pressed against the opening, and should lead them to their through and look into her cell; “monseigneur, I to you that ’twas a which this grating. I it to you by the of paradise. If it was not a cart, may I be damned, and I reject God!”
“You put a great of into that oath;” said Tristan, with his glance.
The woman her more and more. She had the point of blundering, and she with terror that she was saying what she ought not to have said.
Here another soldier came up, crying,—
“Monsieur, the old lies. The did not through the Rue de Mouton. The has all night, and the has no one pass.”
Tristan, more with every moment, the recluse,—
“What have you to say to that?”
She to make against this new incident,
“That I do not know, monseigneur; that I may have been mistaken. I believe, in fact, that she the water.”
“That is in the opposite direction,” said the provost, “and it is not very likely that she would wish to re-enter the city, where she was being pursued. You are lying, old woman.”
“And then,” added the soldier, “there is no either on this of the or on the other.”
“She across,” the recluse, her ground by foot.
“Do swim?” said the soldier.
“Tête Dieu! old woman! You are lying!” Tristan angrily. “I have a good mind to that and take you. A of an hour of will, perchance, the truth from your throat. Come! You are to us.”
She on these with avidity.
“As you please, monseigneur. Do it. Do it. Torture. I am willing. Take me away. Quick, quick! let us set out at once!—During that time,” she said to herself, “my will make her escape.”
“’S death!” said the provost, “what an for the rack! I not this at all.”
An old, gray-haired of the out of the ranks, and the provost,—
“Mad in sooth, monseigneur. If she the gypsy, it was not her fault, for she loves not the gypsies. I have been of the watch these fifteen years, and I her every the Bohemian with imprecations. If the one of we are in is, as I suppose, the little dancer with the goat, she that one above all the rest.”
Gudule an and said,—
“That one above all.”
The of the men of the watch the old sergeant’s to the provost. Tristan l’Hermite, in at anything from the recluse, his on her, and with she him direct his slowly his horse.
“Come!” he said, his teeth, “March on! let us set out again on the quest. I shall not sleep until that is hanged.”
But he still for some time his horse. Gudule life and death, as she him about the Place that look of a dog which that the of the is close to him, and is to go away. At length he his and into his saddle. Gudule’s now dilated, and she said in a low voice, as she a at her daughter, she had not to look at while they were there, “Saved!”
The child had all this time in her corner, without breathing, without moving, with the idea of death her. She had nothing of the Gudule and Tristan, and the of her mother had its echo in her heart. She had all the of the by which she over the gulf; twenty times she had that she saw it break, and at last she to breathe again and to her on ground. At that moment she a voice saying to the provost: “Corbœuf! Monsieur le Prevôt, ’tis no of mine, a man of arms, to witches. The of the is suppressed. I you to to the alone. You will allow me to my company, who are waiting for their captain.”
The voice was that of Phœbus de Châteaupers; that which took place her was ineffable. He was there, her friend, her protector, her support, her refuge, her Phœbus. She rose, and her mother prevent her, she had to the window, crying,—
“Phœbus! me, my Phœbus!”
Phœbus was no longer there. He had just the of the Rue de la Coutellerie at a gallop. But Tristan had not yet taken his departure.
The upon her with a of agony. She her back, her into her neck. A mother not on trifles. But it was too late. Tristan had seen.
“Hé! hé!” he with a laugh which all his teeth and his the of a wolf, “two in the trap!”
“I as much,” said the soldier.
Tristan him on the shoulder,—
“You are a good cat! Come!” he added, “where is Henriet Cousin?”
A man who had neither the the air of a soldier, from the ranks. He a gray, brown, hair, leather sleeves, and a of in his hand. This man always Tristan, who always Louis XI. “Friend,” said Tristan l’Hermite, “I that this is the of we are in search. You will me this one. Have you your ladder?”
“There is one yonder, under the of the Pillar-House,” the man. “Is it on this that the thing is to be done?” he added, pointing to the gibbet.
“Yes.”
“Ho, hé!” the man with a laugh, which was still more than that of the provost, “we shall not have to go.”
“Make haste!” said Tristan, “you shall laugh afterwards.”
In the meantime, the had not another word since Tristan had her and all was lost. She had the gypsy, dead, into the of the cellar, and had herself once more at the window with hands on the of the like two claws. In this she was to upon all those soldiers her which had wild and once more. At the moment when Rennet Cousin approached her cell, she him so a that he back.
“Monseigneur,” he said, returning to the provost, “which am I to take?”
“The one.”
“So much the better, for the old one difficult.”
“Poor little dancer with the goat!” said the old of the watch.
Rennet Cousin approached the window again. The mother’s his own droop. He said with a good of timidity,—
“Madam”—
She him in a very low but voice,—
“What do you ask?”
“It is not you,” he said, “it is the other.”
“What other?”
“The one.”
She to shake her head, crying,—
“There is no one! there is no one! there is no one!”
“Yes, there is!” the hangman, “and you know it well. Let me take the one. I have no wish to you.”
She said, with a sneer,—
“Ah! so you have no wish to me!”
“Let me have the other, madam; ’tis the who it.”
She with a look of madness,—
“There is no one here.”
“I tell you that there is!” the executioner. “We have all that there are two of you.”
“Look then!” said the recluse, with a sneer. “Thrust your through the window.”
The the mother’s finger-nails and not.
“Make haste!” Tristan, who had just his in a circle the Rat-Hole, and who sat on his the gallows.
Rennet returned once more to the in great embarrassment. He had his rope on the ground, and was his his hands with an air.
“Monseigneur,” he asked, “where am I to enter?”
“By the door.”
“There is none.”
“By the window.”
“’Tis too small.”
“Make it larger,” said Tristan angrily. “Have you not pickaxes?”
The mother still looked on from the of her cavern. She no longer for anything, she no longer what she wished, that she did not wish them to take her daughter.
Rennet Cousin in search of the of for the night man, under the of the Pillar-House. He from it also the ladder, which he set up against the gallows. Five or six of the provost’s men themselves with and crowbars, and Tristan himself, in company with them, the window.
“Old woman,” said the provost, in a tone, “deliver up to us that girl quietly.”
She looked at him like one who not understand.
“Tête Dieu!” Tristan, “why do you try to prevent this being as it the king?”
The woman to laugh in her wild way.
“Why? She is my daughter.”
The in which she these Henriet Cousin shudder.
“I am sorry for that,” said the provost, “but it is the king’s good pleasure.”
She cried, her terrible laugh,—
“What is your king to me? I tell you that she is my daughter!”
“Pierce the wall,” said Tristan.
In order to make a wide opening, it to one of the window. When the mother the and her fortress, she a terrible cry; then she to about her with swiftness, a wild beasts’ which her had to her. She no longer said anything, but her flamed. The soldiers were to the very soul.
All at once she her stone, laughed, and it with upon the workmen. The stone, (for her hands trembled), touched no one, and under the of Tristan’s horse. She her teeth.
In the meantime, although the sun had not yet risen, it was daylight; a rose color the ancient, of the Pillar-House. It was the hour when the of the great city open on the roofs. Some workmen, a fruit-sellers on their way to the markets on their asses, to the Grève; they for a moment this group of soldiers the Rat-Hole, at it with an air of and passed on.
The had gone and seated herself by her daughter, her with her body, in of her, with eyes, to the child, who did not stir, but who in a low voice, these only, “Phœbus! Phœbus!” In as the work of the to advance, the mother retreated, and pressed the girl closer and closer to the wall. All at once, the the (for she was and took her from it), move, and she Tristan’s voice the workers. Then she from the into which she had the last moments, out, and as she spoke, her voice now rent the ear like a saw, then as though all of were pressing to her to at once.
“Ho! ho! ho! Why this is terrible! You are ruffians! Are you going to take my daughter? Oh! the cowards! Oh! the lackeys! the wretched, assassins! Help! help! fire! Will they take my child from me like this? Who is it then who is called the good God?”
Then, Tristan, at the mouth, with wild eyes, all and on all like a female panther,—
“Draw near and take my daughter! Do not you that this woman tells you that she is my daughter? Do you know what it is to have a child? Eh! lynx, have you with your female? have you had a cub? and if you have little ones, when they have you nothing in your that moves?”
“Throw the stone,” said Tristan; “it no longer holds.”
The the course. It was, as we have said, the mother’s last bulwark.
She herself upon it, she to it back; she the with her nails, but the block, set in movement by six men, her and to the ground along the iron levers.
The mother, an entrance effected, in of the opening, the with her body, the with her head, and with a voice so by that it was audible,—
“Help! fire! fire!”
“Now take the wench,” said Tristan, still impassive.
The mother at the soldiers in such fashion that they were more to than to advance.
“Come, now,” the provost. “Here you, Rennet Cousin!”
No one took a step.
The swore,—
“Tête de Christ! my men of war! of a woman!”
“Monseigneur,” said Rennet, “do you call that a woman?”
“She has the of a lion,” said another.
“Come!” the provost, “the is wide enough. Enter three abreast, as at the of Pontoise. Let us make an end of it, death of Mahom! I will make two pieces of the man who back!”
Placed the and the mother, threatening, the soldiers for a moment, then took their resolution, and the Rat-Hole.
When the saw this, she rose on her knees, her from her face, then let her thin hands by her side. Then great fell, one by one, from her eyes; they her through a furrow, like a through a which it has for itself.
At the same time she to speak, but in a voice so supplicating, so gentle, so submissive, so heartrending, that more than one old convict-warder around Tristan who must have his eyes.
“Messeigneurs! the sergeants, one word. There is one thing which I must say to you. She is my daughter, do you see? my dear little I had lost! Listen. It is a history. Consider that I the very well. They were always good to me in the days when the little boys at me, I a life of pleasure. Do you see? You will me my child when you know! I was a woman of the town. It was the Bohemians who her from me. And I her shoe for fifteen years. Stay, here it is. That was the of which she had. At Reims! La Chantefleurie! Rue Folle-Peine! Perchance, you about that. It was I. In your youth, then, there was a time, when one passed good hours. You will take on me, will you not, gentlemen? The her from me; they her from me for fifteen years. I her dead. Fancy, my good friends, her to be dead. I have passed fifteen years here in this cellar, without a fire in winter. It is hard. The poor, dear little shoe! I have so much that the good God has me. This night he has my to me. It is a of the good God. She was not dead. You will not take her from me, I am sure. If it were myself, I would say nothing; but she, a child of sixteen! Leave her time to see the sun! What has she done to you? nothing at all. Nor have I. If you did but know that she is all I have, that I am old, that she is a which the Holy Virgin has sent to me! And then, you are all so good! You did not know that she was my daughter; but now you do know it. Oh! I love her! Monsieur, the provost. I would a in my own to a on her finger! You have the air of such a good lord! What I have told you the matter, it not? Oh! if you have had a mother, monseigneur! you are the captain, me my child! Consider that I pray you on my knees, as one to Jesus Christ! I ask nothing of any one; I am from Reims, gentlemen; I own a little from my uncle, Mahiet Pradon. I am no beggar. I wish nothing, but I do want my child! oh! I want to keep my child! The good God, who is the master, has not her to me for nothing! The king! you say the king! It would not him much to have my little killed! And then, the king is good! she is my daughter! she is my own daughter! She not to the king! she is not yours! I want to go away! we want to go away! and when two pass, one a mother and the other a daughter, one lets them go! Let us pass! we in Reims. Oh! you are very good, the sergeants, I love you all. You will not take my dear little one, it is impossible! It is impossible, is it not? My child, my child!”
We will not try to give an idea of her gestures, her tone, of the which she as she spoke, of the hands which she and then wrung, of the heart-breaking smiles, of the glances, of the groans, the sighs, the and which she with her disordered, wild, and words. When she Tristan l’Hermite frowned, but it was to a tear which up in his tiger’s eye. He this weakness, however, and said in a tone,—
“The king it.”
Then he to the ear of Rennet Cousin, and said to him in a very low tone,—
“Make an end of it quickly!” Possibly, the his also him.
The and the entered the cell. The mother offered no resistance, only she herself her and herself upon her. The the soldiers approach. The of death her,—
“Mother!” she shrieked, in a of distress, “Mother! they are coming! me!”
“Yes, my love, I am you!” the mother, in a voice; and her closely in her arms, she her with kisses. The two thus on the earth, the mother upon the daughter, presented a of pity.
Rennet Cousin the girl by the middle of her body, her shoulders. When she that hand, she cried, “Heuh!” and fainted. The who was large upon her, by drop, was about to her away in his arms. He to the mother, who had, so to speak, her hands around her daughter’s waist; but she so to her child, that it was to them. Then Rennet Cousin the girl the cell, and the mother after her. The mother’s were also closed.
At that moment, the sun rose, and there was already on the Place a of people who looked on from a at what was being thus along the to the gibbet. For that was Provost Tristan’s way at executions. He had a for the approach of the curious.
There was no one at the windows. Only at a distance, at the of that one of the towers of Notre-Dame which the Grève, two men in black against the light sky, and who to be looking on, were visible.
Rennet Cousin paused at the of the ladder, with that which he was dragging, and, breathing, with so much did the thing him, he passed the rope around the of the girl. The child the touch of the hemp. She her eyelids, and saw the arm of the above her head. Then she herself and in a loud and voice: “No! no! I will not!” Her mother, was and in her daughter’s garments, said not a word; only her whole be to quiver, and she was to her on her child. The took of this moment to the arms with which she the girl. Either through or despair, she let him have his way. Then he took the girl on his shoulder, from which the hung, over his large head. Then he set his on the in order to ascend.
At that moment, the mother who was on the pavement, opened her wide. Without a cry, she herself with a terrible expression; then she herself upon the hand of the executioner, like a on its prey, and it. It was done like a of lightning. The with pain. Those near by up. With they his hand from the mother’s teeth. She a silence. They her with much brutality, and noticed that her on the pavement. They her, she again. She was dead.
The executioner, who had not his on the girl, to the once more.
