34
THE HUNCHBACK OF  NOTRE DAME.
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I
of the righteous—" a very easy life," said he, " con-
sidering all tilings, and very favorable to reverie."
And then, in his soul and conscience, the philoso-
pher was not sure that he was not over head and
ears in love with the Bohemian. He loved her
goat almost as dearly. It was a charming, gentle,
clever, intelligent creature—in short, a learned
goat. There was nothing more common in the
middle ages than those learned animals, which ex-
cited general wonder, and frequently brought
their instructors to the stake. The sorceries of
the golden-hoofed goat, however, were but very
innocent tricks. These Gringoire explained to
the Archdeacon, who appeared to be deeply in-
terested by those particulars. It was sufficient,
he said, in most cases, to hold the tambourine to
the animal in such or such a way, to make it do
what you wished. It had been trained to these
performances by the girl, who was so extremely
clever at the business that she had taken only two
months to teach the goat to put together with
movable letters the word Phcebus.
"Phoebus!" exclaimed the priest; "whyPhoe-
bus?"
"God knows," replied Gringoire. "Possibly she
may imagine that this word possesses some magic
virtue. She frequently repeats it in an undertone
when she thinks she is alone."
" Are you sure," inquired Claude, with his pierc-
ing look,  "that it is only a word, and not a
name ? "
"Name! whose name?" said the poet.
"How should I know?" rejoined the priest.
" I'll just tell you, Messire, what I am thinking.
These Bohemians are a sort of Guebres, and wor-
ship the sun—Dan Phoebus."
" That is not so clear to me as to you, Master
Pierre."
" At any rate, 'tis a point which I care very little
about.   Let her mutter her Phoebus as much as
she pleases.   So much is certain, that Djali is al-
most as fond of me as of her mistress."
"What is Djali?"
"Why, that is the goat."
The Archdeacon rested his Chin upon the points
of his fingers, and  for  a moment appeared to be
lost in thought.   Then, suddenly turning toward
Gringoire—"Thou wilt swear,"  said he,  "that
thou" hast never touched her ? "
"What! the goat?" asked Gringoire.
"No, the girl."
" Oh ! my wife !   I swear I never did."
"And thou art often alone with her ? "
"Every evening for a full hour."
Dom Claude knitted his brow.  " Oh ! oh ! Solus
cum sola non cogitabantur orare Pater-noster."
" Upon my life I might say the Pater, and the
Ave Maria, and the Credo in Deum Patrem
omnipotentem, and she would take no more notice
of me than a pig of a church."
" Swear to me, by the soul of thy mother," cried
the Archdeacon with vehemence, " that thou hast
not touched this creature with the tip of thy
finger."
" I am ready to swear  it by the body of my
father also.  But, my reverend master, allow me to
ask a question in my turn."
"Speak."
"How can this concern you?"
The pale face of the Archdeacon crimsoned like
the cheek of a bashful girl. He paused for a mo-
ment before he replied, with visible embarrass
ment, " Listen, Master Pierre Gringoire. You are
not yet eternally lost, as far as I know. I take an
interest in your welfare. Let me tell you, then,
that the moment you but lay a hand on that
Egyptian, that child of the devil, you become the
vassal of Satan. 'Tis the body, you know, that al-
ways plunges the soul into perdition. Woe betide
you, if you approach this creature ! That is all.
Now get thee gone ! " cried the priest with a
terrible look; and, pushing the astonished Grin-
goire from him by the shoulders, he retreated witn
hasty step beneath the gloomy arcades of the
cathedral.
Chapter III.—The Bells.
Ever since the morning that Quasimodo under-
went the punishment of the pillory, the good peo-
ple who dwelt in the neighborhood of Notre Dame
fancied that they perceived a great abatement in
his ardor for bell-ringing. Before that event, the
bells were going on all occasions; there were long
tellings which lasted from prime to compline,
chimes for high mass, merry peals for a wedding
or a christening, mingling in the air like an em-
broidery of all sorts of charming sounds. The
old church, all quaking and all sonorous, seemed
to keep up a perpetual rejoicing. You felt in-
cessantly the presence of a spirit of noise and
caprice, speaking by all these brazen mouths.
This spirit seemed now to have forsaken its abode :
the cathedral appeared sullen and silent; holidays,
funerals, and the like, were attended merely by
the tolling which the ritual required and no more:
of the double sound which pervades a church, that
of the organ within and of the bells without, the
former alone was left. You would have said that
there was no longer any musician in the belfries.
Quasimodo, nevertheless, was still there. But
what ailed him ? Were rage and vexation on ac-
count of what he had suffered still rankling in his
heart ? did he still feel in imagination the lash of
the executioner, and had the despondency oc-
casioned by such treatment extinguished even his
fondness for the bells? —or was it possible that
big Mary had a rival in the heart of the bell-
ringer of Notre Daine, and that she and her four-
teen sisters were neglected for a more beautiful
and a more lovely object ?
It so happened that in the year of grace, 1482,
the Annunciation fell upon Tuesday the 25th of
March. On that day the air was so light and
serene that Quasimodo felt some reviving affection
for his bells. He went up therefore into the north
tower, while below the bedel threw wide open the
doors of the church, which were at that time
formed of enormous slabs of oak, covered with
hide, bordered with nails of iron gilt,_and adorned
with carvings, "most cunningly wrought,"
Having reached the high loft of the belfry,
Quasimodo gazed for some time at the six bells
with a sad shake of the head, as if lamenting that
some other object had intruded itself into his
heart between them and him. But when he had
set them in motion, when he felt this bunch of
bells swinging in his hand; when he saw, for he
could not hear, the palpitating octave running up
and down that sonorous scale, like a bird hopping
from twig to twig: when the demon of Music,
that demon which shakes a glittering quiver of
stretti, trills, and arpeggios, had taken possession
of the poor deaf bell-ringer, he was once more
happy, he forgot all his troubles, his heart ex-
panded, and his face brightened up.
He paced to and fro, he clapped his hands, he
ran from rope to rope, he encouraged the six
chimers with voice and gesture, as the leader of an
orchestra spurs on intelligent performers.
" Go on, Gabrielle, go on," said he, " pour thy
flood of sound into the place, for 'tis a holiday.
Don't lag, Thibault; no idling ! Move, move; art
thou rusty, lazy-bones ? Well done ! quick, quick !
peal it lustily : make them all deaf like me !
That's right, bravely done, Thibault ! Guillaume,
Guillaume, thou art the biggest, and Pasquier the
least, and yet Pasquier beats thee hollow. Those
who can hear, I'll engage, hear more of him than
of thee. Well done ! well done, my Gabrielle;
harder and harder still ! Soho ! you two Sparrows
up there ! I do not hear you give out the least
chirp. Of what use is it to have those brazen
mouths, if ye but yawn when ye ought to sing ?
There, work away ! 'Tis the Annunciation. The
cheery sunshine requires a merry peal. Poor
Guillaume ! thou art quite out of breath, my big
fellow!"
He was thus engaged in egging on his bells,
which all six bounded and shook their shining
haunches, like a noisy team of Spanish mules,
urged first this way then that by the apostrophes
of the driver. All at once, casting down his eye
between the large slates which like scales cover
the perpendicular wall of the belfry to a certain
height, he descried in the place a young female
oddly accoutered, who stopped and spread upon
the ground a carpet on which a little goat came
and posted itself. A circle of spectators was soon
formed around them. This sight suddenly
changed the current of his ideas, and congealed
his musical enthusiasm as a breath of air congeals
melted resin. He paused, turned his back to his
bells, and, leaning forward from beneath the slat-
ed penthouse, eyed the dancing-girl with that
pensive, kind, nay tender, look, which had once
before astonished the Archdeacon. Meanwhile
the bells, left to themselves, abruptly ceased all at
once, to the great disappointment of the lovers of
this kind of music, who were listening with
delight to the peal from the Pont au Change, and
went away as sulky as a dog to which you have
held a piece of meat and given a stone.
Chapter IV.—Claude Frollo's Cell.
One fine morning in the same month of March,
I believe it was Saturday, the 29th, the festival of
St. Eustache, it so happened thatour young friend
Jehan Frollo du Moulin perceived, while dressing
himself, that his breeches, containing his purse,
gave out no metallic sound. " Poor purse ! " said
ne, drawing it forth from his pocket ; " not one
little Parisis ! How cruelly thou hast been gutted
by dice, Venus, and the tavern ! There thou art,
empty, wrinkled, flaccid. Thou art like the bosom
of a fury. I would just ask you, Messer Cicero
and Messer Seneca, whose dog's-eared works lie
scattered on the floor, of what use is it to me to
know, better than a master of the mint or a Jew
of the Pont aux Changeurs, that a gold crown is
worth thirty-five unzains, at twenty-five sous eight
deniers Parisis each, if I have not a single miser-
able black hard to risk on the double six ! O
Consul Cicero ! this is not a calamity from which
one may extricate one's self with periphrases,
with quemadmodums andverumenimveros."
He began to put on his clothes in silent sadness.
While lacing his buskins, a thought occurred to
him, but he gave it up immediately. Again it pre-
sented itself, and he put on his vest the wrong
side out, an evident sign of some violent inward
struggle. At length, dashing his cap upon the
ground, he exclaimed—" Yes, I will go to my bro-
ther ; I shall get a lecture, but then I shall get a
crown."
Then hastily throwing on his surcoat trimmed
with fur, and picking up his cap, he rushed out of
the room. He went down the Bue de la Harpe
toward the City. As he passed the Bue de la
Huchette his olfactories were gratified by the _
smell of the joints incessantly roasting there, and | sect architect looked like the nave
he cast a sheep's eye at the gigantic apparatus
which one day drew from Calatagirone, the Fran
ciscan, this pathetic exclamation — Veramente
queste rôtisserie sono cosa stupenda ! But Jehan
had not wherewithal to get a breakfast, and with
a deep sigh he pursued his course under the gate
way of the Petit Chatelet, that enormous cluster
of massive towers which guarded the entrance to
the city.
He did not even take the time to throw a stone
in passing, as it was then customary, at the mutil-
ated statue of that Perinet Leclerc, who had sur
rendered the Paris of Charles VI to the English
—a crime for which his effigy, defaced by stones
and covered with mud, did penance for three cen-
turies, at the corner of the streets of La Harpe
and Bussy, as in a perpetual pillory.
Having crossed the Petit Pont, Jehan at length
found himself before Notre Dame. Again he wa-
vered in his purpose and he walked for a few
moments round the statue of M. Legris, repeat-
ing to himself,—" I am sure of the lecture, but
shall I get the crown ?"
He stopped a verger who was coming from
the cloisters. "Where is the Archdeacon of
Josas ? " he inquired.
" I believe he is in his closet in the tower," re-
plied the verger ; " and I would not advise you to
disturb him there, unless you have a message from
some such person as the Pope or Monsieur the
King."
Jehan clapped his hands. "By Jupiter ! " he
exclaimed—"a fine opportunity for seeing that
famous den of sorcery ! "
Determined by this reflection, he resolutely en-
tered at the little back door, and began to ascend
the winding stairs leading to the upper stories of
the tower. " We shall see," said he to himself by
the way. " By our Lady ! It must be a curious
place, that cell which my reverend brother keeps
so carefully to himself. They say that he has a
roaring fire there sometimes to cook the philoso-
pher's stones at. By my fay, I care no more
about the philosopher's stone than any cobble-
stone, and I would rather find a savory omelette
on his furnace than the biggest philosopher's
stone in the world ! "
Having reached the pillar gallery, he stood puff-
ing for a moment, and then swore at the endless
stairs by 1 know not how many million cart-loads
of devils. Having somewhat vented his spleen,
he recommencedhis ascent by the little door of the-
north tower, which is now shut against the pub-
lic. Just after he had passed the bell room, he-
came to a lateral recess in which there was a low
pointed door. "Humph!" said the scholar;
" this must be the place, I suppose."
The key was in the lock, and the door not
fastened ; he gently pushed it open far enough to
look in.
The reader has no doubt turned over the admi-
rable works of fiembrandt, that Shakspeare of
painting. Among so many wonderful engravings,,
there is one, in particular, representing Dr. Faus-
tus, as it is conjectured, which you can not look at
without being dazzled. The scene is a dark cell,
in the middle of which is a table covered with
hideous objects — skulls, globes, alembics, com-
passes, parchments with hieroglyphics. Before
this table is the doctor dressed in a coarse loose
great coat, and with his fur cap pulled down to
his very eyebrows. The lower part of his person
is not to be seen. Half risen from his immense
arm-chair, he leans with his clenched fists upon
the table, and is looking with curiosity and terror
at a large luminous circle, composed of magic let-
ters, which glares upon the opposite wall, like the
solar spectrum in a dark room. This cabalistic
sun seems to tremble to the eye, and fills the
gloomy cell with its mysterious radiance. It is
terrible, and it is beautiful.
A scene not unlike the cell of Dr. Faustus pre-
sented itself to the view of Jehan, when he ven-
tured to look in at the half-open door. This, too,
was a gloomy hole into which the light was very
sparingly admitted. It contained, too, a great
arm-chair and a large table, compasses, alembics,
skeletons of animals hanging from the ceiling, a
globe lying upon the floor pell-mell with glass
jars, filled with liquids of various colors, skulls
placed on parchments scrawled over with figures
and letters, thick manuscripts wide open and
heaped one upon another—in short all the rub-
bish of science—and the whole covered with dust
and cobwebs : but there was no circle of luminous
letters, no doctor in ecstasy contemplating the
flaming vision as the eagle gazes at the sun.
The cell, however, was not unoccupied. A man
seated in the arm-chair was stooping over the
table. His back was turned to Jehan, who could
see no more than his shoulders and the hinder
part of his head ; but he had no difficulty to rec-
ognize that bald crown, on which Nature had
made a everlasting tonsure, as if to mark by tnis
outward symbol the irresistible clerical vocation or
tlift AfoVifl WLPon
The door had'opened so softly that Dom Claude
was not aware of the presence of his brother, ine
young scape-grace took advantage of this cir-
cumstance to explore the cell for a few moments.
To the left of the arm-chair and beneath the small
window was a large furnace, which he had not re-
marked at the first glance. The ray of light whicn
entered at the aperture passed through a Circular
cobweb, in the center of which the motionless in-
sect architect looked like the nave of this wheel or