THE BEAUTIFUL CREATURE CLAD IN WHITE. (Dante.)
When Quasimodo saw that the was empty, that the was no longer there, that while he had been her she had been abducted, he his with hands and with and pain; then he set out to through the entire church his Bohemian, to all the of the walls, his red on the pavement. It was just at the moment when the king’s were making their entrance into Notre-Dame, also in search of the gypsy. Quasimodo, poor, fellow, them in their intentions, without it; he that the were the gypsy’s enemies. He himself Tristan l’Hermite to all possible hiding-places, opened to him the doors, the of the altars, the sacristries. If the girl had still been there, it would have been he himself who would have delivered her up.
When the of nothing had Tristan, who was not easily discouraged, Quasimodo the search alone. He the of the church twenty times, length and breadth, up and down, and descending, running, calling, shouting, peeping, rummaging, ransacking, his into every hole, pushing a under every vault, despairing, mad. A male who has his female is no more more haggard.
At last when he was sure, perfectly sure that she was no longer there, that all was at an end, that she had been from him, he slowly the to the towers, that which he had with so much and on the day when he had saved her. He passed those same places once more with head, voiceless, tearless, almost breathless. The church was again deserted, and had into its silence. The had it to the in the city. Quasimodo, left alone in that Notre-Dame, so and but a time before, once more himself to the where the had slept for so many under his guardianship.
As he approached it, he that he might, perhaps, her there. When, at the turn of the which opens on the of the aisles, he the with its little window and its little door a great like a bird’s under a branch, the man’s failed him, and he against a to keep from falling. He that she might have returned thither, that some good had, no doubt, her back, that this was too tranquil, too safe, too for her not to be there, and he not take another step for of his illusion. “Yes,” he said to himself, “perchance she is sleeping, or praying. I must not her.”
At length he up courage, on tiptoe, looked, entered. Empty. The was still empty. The man walked slowly it, the and looked it, as though she might be the and the mattress, then he his and stupefied. All at once, he his under his foot, and, without a word, without to a sigh, he himself at full speed, against the wall, and on the floor.
When he his senses, he himself on the and about, he the place where the girl had slept and which was still warm; he there for moments as as though he were about to expire; then he rose, with perspiration, panting, mad, and to his against the with the of the of his bells, and the of a man to kill himself. At length he a second time, exhausted; he himself on his the cell, and the door, in an of astonishment.
He thus for more than an hour without making a movement, with his on the cell, more gloomy, and more than a mother seated an empty and a full coffin. He not a word; only at long intervals, a his violently, but it was a sob, like which makes no noise.
It to have been then, that, at the of his for the of the gypsy, he of the archdeacon. He that Dom Claude alone a key to the leading to the cell; he his on the girl, in the of which he, Quasimodo, had assisted, the second of which he had prevented. He a thousand details, and soon he no longer that the had taken the gypsy. Nevertheless, such was his respect for the priest, such his gratitude, his devotion, his love for this man had taken such in his heart, that they resisted, at this moment, the of and despair.
He that the had done this thing, and the of blood and death which it would have in him against any other person, in the man, from the moment when Claude Frollo was in question, into an of and sorrow.
At the moment when his was thus upon the priest, while the was the buttresses, he on the of Notre-Dame, at the by the as it makes the turn of the chancel, a walking. This was him. He it. It was the archdeacon.
Claude was walking with a slow, step. He did not look him as he walked, he was his the northern tower, but his was the right bank of the Seine, and he his high, as though trying to see something over the roofs. The often this attitude. It one point and looks another. In this manner the passed above Quasimodo without him.
The man, who had been by this apparition, him through the door of the to the north tower. The reader is aware that this is the tower from which the Hôtel-de-Ville is visible. Quasimodo rose and the archdeacon.
Quasimodo the tower for the of it, for the of why the was it. Moreover, the did not know what he (Quasimodo) should do, what he should say, what he wished. He was full of and full of fear. The and the had come into in his heart.
When he the of the tower, from the of the and upon the platform, he the position of the priest. The priest’s was to him. There is an which the of the tower. The priest, looked upon the town, was his on that one of the four of the which looks upon the Pont Notre-Dame.
Quasimodo, with the of a him, to see what he was at thus.
The priest’s attention was so that he did not the man walking him.
Paris is a and spectacle, and at that day, viewed from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame, in the fresh light of a dawn. The day might have been in July. The sky was perfectly serene. Some were away at points, and there was a very one in the east, in the part of the heavens. The sun was about to appear; Paris was to move. A very white and very pure light out to the all the that its thousands of houses present to the east. The of the towers from to roof, from one end of the great city to the other. There were from which were already voices and noisy sounds. Here the of a bell, there the of a hammer, beyond, the of a in motion.
Already of were being from the over the whole surface of roofs, as through the of an crater. The river, which its against the of so many bridges, against the points of so many islands, was with folds. Around the city, the ramparts, was in a great circle of through which one the line of the plains, and the of the heights. All of were over this half-awakened city. Towards the east, the a soft white of from the of the hills.
In the Parvis, some good women, who had their milk in their hands, were pointing out to each other, with astonishment, the of the great door of Notre-Dame, and the two of lead in the of the stone. This was all that of the of the night. The the towers by Quasimodo had died out. Tristan had already up the Place, and had the into the Seine. Kings like Louis XI. are to clean the after a massacre.
Outside the of the tower, directly under the point where the had paused, there was one of those with which Gothic bristle, and, in a of that gutter, two in blossom, out and vivified, as it were, by the of air, to each other. Above the towers, on high, away in the of the sky, the of little were heard.
But the was not to, was not looking at, anything of all this. He was one of the men for there are no mornings, no birds, no flowers. In that horizon, which so many about him, his was on a single point.
Quasimodo was to ask him what he had done with the gypsy; but the to be out of the world at that moment. He was in one of those moments of life when one would not the earth crumble. He and silent, with his on a point; and there was something so terrible about this and that the it and not come in with it. Only, and this was also one way of the archdeacon, he the direction of his vision, and in this way the of the man upon the Place de Grève.
Thus he saw what the was looking at. The was near the permanent gallows. There were some people and many soldiers in the Place. A man was a white thing, from which something black, along the pavement. This man at the of the gallows.
Here something took place which Quasimodo not see very clearly. It was not his only had not its long range, but there was a group of soldiers which his everything. Moreover, at that moment the sun appeared, and such a of light overflowed the that one would have said that all the points in Paris, spires, chimneys, gables, had taken fire.
Meanwhile, the man to the ladder. Then Quasimodo saw him again distinctly. He was a woman on his shoulder, a girl in white; that girl had a about her neck. Quasimodo her.
It was she.
The man the top of the ladder. There he the noose. Here the priest, in order to see the better, upon the balustrade.
All at once the man away the abruptly, and Quasimodo, who had not for moments, the child at the end of the rope two above the pavement, with the man on her shoulders. The rope on itself, and Quasimodo along the gypsy’s body. The priest, on his side, with and starting from his head, this group of the man and the girl,—the and the fly.
At the moment when it was most horrible, the laugh of a demon, a laugh which one can only give to when one is no longer human, on the priest’s face.
Quasimodo did not that laugh, but he saw it.
The the archdeacon, and himself upon him with fury, with his hands he pushed him by the over into the over which Dom Claude was leaning.
The shrieked: “Damnation!” and fell.
The spout, above which he had stood, him in his fall. He to it with hands, and, at the moment when he opened his mouth to a second cry, he the and of Quasimodo over the of the above his head.
Then he was silent.
The was there him. A of more than two hundred and the pavement.
In this terrible situation, the said not a word, not a groan. He upon the spout, with to climb up again; but his hands had no on the granite, his along the without fast. People who have the towers of Notre-Dame know that there is a of the the balustrade. It was on this that himself. He had not to with a wall, but with one which away him.
Quasimodo had but to out his hand in order to him from the gulf; but he did not look at him. He was looking at the Grève. He was looking at the gallows. He was looking at the gypsy.
The man was leaning, with his on the balustrade, at the spot where the had been a moment before, and there, his from the only object which for him in the world at that moment, he and mute, like a man by lightning, and a long of in from that which, up to that time, had but one tear.
Meanwhile, the was panting. His was with perspiration, his were against the stones, his were by the wall.
He his cassock, which was on the spout, and at every that he gave it. To complete his misfortune, this ended in a pipe which under the weight of his body. The this pipe slowly way. The man said to himself that, when his hands should be out with fatigue, when his should tear asunder, when the lead should give way, he would be to fall, and terror upon his very vitals. Now and then he at a of narrow formed, ten down, by of the sculpture, and he prayed heaven, from the of his soul, that he might be allowed to his life, were it to last two centuries, on that space two square. Once, he him into the Place, into the abyss; the which he again had its closed and its erect.
There was something in the of these two men. While the in this terrible fashion a him, Quasimodo and at the Grève.
The archdeacon, that all his only to the support which to him, to quiet. There he hung, the gutter, breathing, no longer stirring, making no longer any other movements than that of the stomach, which one in when one himself falling. His were wide open with a stare. He ground little by little, nevertheless, his along the spout; he more and more of the of his arms and the weight of his body. The of the lead which him more and more each the abyss.
He him, a thing, the of Saint-Jean le Rond, as small as a card in two. He at the carvings, one by one, of the tower, like himself over the precipice, but without terror for themselves or for him. All was around him; his eyes, monsters; below, at the bottom, in the Place, the pavement; above his head, Quasimodo weeping.
In the Parvis there were groups of good people, who were to who the be who was himself in so a manner. The them saying, for their voices him, clear and shrill: “Why, he will his neck!”
Quasimodo wept.
At last the archdeacon, with and despair, that all was in vain. Nevertheless, he all the which to him for a final effort. He himself upon the spout, pushed against the with his knees, to a in the with his hands, and succeeded in with one foot, perhaps; but this the on which he rested abruptly. His open at the same time. Then, give way him, with nothing but his and hands to support him, the man closed his and let go of the spout. He fell.
Quasimodo him fall.
A from such a is perpendicular. The archdeacon, into space, at foremost, with hands; then he over and over many times; the wind him upon the of a house, where the man to up. Nevertheless, he was not when he there. The saw him still to to a with his nails; but the surface too much, and he had no more strength. He along the like a tile, and upon the pavement. There he no longer moved.
Then Quasimodo his to the gypsy, he from the gibbet, away her white with the last of anguish, then he them on the archdeacon, out at the of the tower, and no longer the form, and he said, with a which his chest,—“Oh! all that I have loved!”
