50
THE HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE DAME.
¦
hoarse voice saying very kindly : "Don't be afraid.
I am your friend. I came to see you sleep. What
harm can it do to you if I come to look at you
when your eyes are shut ? Well, well, I am going.
There, now, I am behind the wall. Now you can
open your eyes."
There was something still more plaintive than
these words in the accent with which they were
uttered. The Egyptian, affected by them, opened
her eyes. He was actually no longer at the win-
dow. She went to it, looked out. and saw the
poor hunchback cowering under the wall, in an
attitude of grief and resignation. She made an
effort to overcome the aversion which he excited.
" Come ! " said she kindly to him. Observing the
motion of her lips, Quasimodo imagined that she
was bidding him go away. He then rose and re-
tired, with slow and halting step and drooping
head, without so much as daring to raise his eyes,
filled with despair, to the damsel. "Come then !"
she cried; but he continued to move off. She then
darted out of the cell, ran to him, and took hold
of his arm. On feeling her touch, Quasimodo
trembled in every limb. He lifted his supplicating
eye, and, finding that she drew him toward her,
his whole face shone with joy and tenderness.
She would have made him go into her cell, but he
insisted on staying at her threshold. "No, no,"
said he ; " the owl never enters the nest of the
lark.»
She then seated herself gracefully on her bed,
with her goat at her feet. Both remained for
some minutes motionless, contemplating in
silence, he so much beauty, she so much ugliness.
Every moment she discovered in Quasimodo some
new deformity. Her look wandered from his
knock-knees to his hunchback, from his hunch-
back to his only eye. She could not conceive how
a creature so awkwardly put together could exist.
At the same time an air of such sadness and gentle-
ness pervaded his whole figure, that she began to
be reconciled with it.
He was the first to break silence. "Did you not
call me back ? " said he.
" Yes ! " replied she, with a nod of affirmation.
He understood the sign. " Alas ! " said he, as
if hesitating to finish, " you must know, I am
deaf."
"Poor fellow !" exclaimed the Bohemian, with
an expression of pity.
He smiled sadly. "You think nothing else was
wanting, don't you ? Yes, I am deaf. That is the
way in which I am served. It is terrible, is it not?
—while you—you are so beautiful ! "
The tone of the poor fellow conveyed such a
profound feeling of his wretchedness that she had
not the heart to utter a word. Besides, he would
not have heard her. He then resumed : " Never
till now was I aware how hideous I am. When I
compare myself with you, I can not help pitying
myself, poor unhappy monster that I am ! I must
appear to you like a beast—You, you are a sun-
beam, a drop of dew, a bird's song !—I, I am some-
thing frightful, neither man nor brute, something
harder, more shapeless, and more trampled upon,
than a flint."
He then laughed, and scarcely could there be
aught in the world more cutting than this laugh.
He continued : " Yes, I am deaf : but you will
speak to me by gestures, by signs. I have a
master who talks to me in that way. And then, I
shal! soon know your meaning from the motion of
your lips, from your look."
"Well then," replied she, smiling, "tell me why
you have saved me ?"
He looked steadfastly at her while she spoke.
"I understand," rejoined he : "you ask me why
I saved you. You have forgotten a wretch who
attempted one night to carry you off, a wretch to
whom, the very next day, you brought relief on
the ignominious pillory. A draught of water and
a look of pity are more than I could repay with
my life. You have forgotten that wretch—but he
has not for otten."
She listened to him with deep emotion. A tear
started into the eye of the bell-ringer, but it did not
fall. He appeared to make a point of repressing
it. "Look you," he again began, when he no
longer feared lest that tear should escape him,
"we have very high towers here ; a man falling
from one of them would be dead almost before he
reached the pavement. When you wish to be rid
of me, teU me to throw myself from the top—you
have but to say the word; nay, a look will be suf-
ficient."
He then rose. Unhappy as was the Bohemian,
this grotesque being awakened compassion even
in her.   She made him a sign to stay.
" No, no," said he, " I must not stay too long. I
do not feel comfortable. It is out of pity that you
do not turn your eyes from me. I will seek some
place where I can look at you without your seeing
me : that will be better."
He drew from his pocket a small metal whistle.
"Take this," said he : "when you want me, when
you wish me to come, when you have the courage
to see me, whistle with this. I shall hear that
sound."
... He laid the whistle on the floor, and retired.
Chapter IV.—Earthenware and Crystal.
Time passed on. Tranquillity returned by de-
grees to the soul of La Esmeralda. Excessive
grief, like excessive joy, is too violent to last. The
huma   heart can not continue long in either ex-
tremity. The Bohemian had suffered so much,
that, of the feelings she had lately experienced,
astonishment alone was left.
Along with security hope began to revive within
her. She was out of society, out of life, but she
had a vague feeling that it might not be impos-
sible for lier to return to them. She was like one
dead, keeping in reserve a key to her tomb.
The terrible images which had so long haunted
her were leaving her by degrees. All the hideous
phantoms, Pierrat Torterue, Jacques Charmolue,
had faded from her mind—all of them, even the
priest himself. And then, Phœbus was yet living :
she was sure of it ; she had seen him. To her the
life of Phoebus was every thing. After the series
of fatal shocks which had laid waste all her affec-
tions, she had found but one sentiment in her
soul which they had not overthrown—her love for
the captain. Love is like a tree : it shoots of itself ;
it strikes its roots deeply into our whole being, and
frequently continues to be green over a heart in
ruins. And there is this unaccountable circum-
stance attending it, that the blinder that passion
the more tenacious it is. Never is it stronger than
when it is most unreasonable.
No doubt La Esmeralda did not think of the
captain without pain. No doubt it was terrible
that he too should have made such a mistake, that
he too should have thought the thing possible,
that he too should have believed the wound to be
inflicted by one who would have given a thousand
lives for his sake. St 11 there was no great reason
to be angry with him : had she not confessed the
crime ? had she not, frail creature as she was,
yielded to the torture ? AU the fault was hers.
She ought to have suffered them to tear her in
pieces rather than make such an admission. After
all, could she see Phoebus but once more for a single
minute ; a word, a look, would suffice to undeceive
him and to bring back the truant. This she had
not the least doubt of. There were, at the same
time, several singular circumstances about which
she puzzled herself—the accident of Phoebus's pres-
ence at the penance ; the young female in whose
company he was. she was, no doubt, his sister.
An improbable explanation, but she was satisfied
with it, because she must needs believe that
Phoebus still loved her, and loved but her. Had he
not sworn it? What more could she require,
simple and credulous as she was ? And then, in
this affair, were not appearances much more
against her than against him ? She waited there-
fore—she hoped.
We may add too that the church, that vast
church, which saved her, which enveloped her on
all sides, which guarded her, was itself a sovereign
anodyne. The solemn lines of that architecture,
the religious attitude of all the objects around
her, the serene and pious thoughts which tran-
spired, as it were, through all the pores of that
pile, acted upon her unknown to herself. The
edifice moreover had sounds of such majesty and
such blessing, that they soothed her broken spirit.
The monotonous chant of the officiating priests ;
the responses of the congregation, sometimes in-
articulate, sometimes thundering ; the harmonious
shiver of the windows ; the organ bursting forth
like a hundred trumpets ; the three belfries buz-
zing like hives of immense bees ; all that orchestra,
with its gigantic gamut incessantly ascending and
descending from a crowd below to a bell-tower
ab've, lulled her memory, her imagination, her
sorrows. The bells more especially had this sooth-
ing effect, lt was like a mighty magnetism which
those vast engines poured over her in broad waves.
Accordingly each successive sunrise found her
more serene, more comfortable, and less pale. In
proportion as her inward wounds healed, her face
recovered its grace and beauty, but chastened with
more sedateness, more repose. Her former char-
acter returned also—even somewhat of her cheer-
fulness, her pretty pout, her fondness for her goat
and for singing, and her modesty. In the morning
she shrunk into a corner of her cell to dress her-
self, lest any inmate of the neighboring garrets
should espy her through the window.
When the thoughts of Phoebus allowed her time,
the Egyptian would sometimes think of Quasi-
modo. He was the only bond, the only link, the
only communication, that was left her with man-
kind, with the living. The unfortunate girl was
more completely cut off from the world than
Quasimodo. As for the strange friend whom
chance had given her, she knew not what to make
of him. She would frequently reproach herself
for not feeling sufficient gratitude to blind her to
his imperfections ; but decidedly she could not
accustom herself to the poor bell-ringer. He was
too hid- ous.
She had left on the floor the whistle that he had
given her. Quasimodo, nevertheless, looked in
from time to time, on the succeeding days, she
strove as much as she could to conceal her aver-
sion, when he brought her the basket of provi-
sions or the pitcher of water ; but he was sure to
perceive the slightest movement of that kind, and
then he went sorrowfully away.
One day, he came just at the moment when she
was fondling Djali. For a while he stood full of
thought before the graceful group of the goat and
the Egyptian. At length, shaking his huge mis-
shapen head : " My misfortune," said he, "is that
I am too much like a human creature. Would to
God that I had been a downright beast, like that
She cast on him a look of astonishment. " Oh 1 "
he replied to that look—"welldo Iknowwhv»
and immediately retired.                                  ''
Another time, when he came to the door of th»
cell, which he never entered, La Esmeralda was
singing an old Spanish ballad : she knew not th«
meaning of the words, but it dwelt upon her ear
because the Bohemian women had lulled her with
it when quite a child. At the abrupt appearance
of that ugly face the damsel stopped short with
an involuntary start, in the middle of her song
The unhappy bell-ringer dropped upon his knees
at the threshold of the door, and with a beseech
ing look clasped his clumsy shapeless hands"
" Oh ! " said he, sorrowfully, " go on, I pray you'
and drive me not away." Not wishing to vex him'
the trembling girl continued the ballad. By de^
grees her alarm subsided, and she gave herself up
entirely to the impression of the melancholy tune
which she was singing : while he remained upon
his knees, with his hands joined as in prayer
scarcely breathing, his look intently fixed on the
sparkling orbs of the Bohemian. You would have
said that he was listening to her song with his
eyes.
On another occasion; he came to her with an
awkward and bashful air. " Hearken to me," said
he, with effort ; "I have something to say to you."
—She made a sign to him that she was listening..
He then began to sigh, half opened his lips, ap-
peared for a moment ready to speak, looked at her,
shook his head, and slowly retired, pressing his
hand to his brow, and leaving the Egyptian in
amazement.
Among the grotesque heads sculptured in the
wall there was one for which he showed a par-
ticular predilection, and with which he seemed to
exchange brotherly looks. The Egyptian once
heard him address it in these words : "Oh I why
am I not of stone, like thee ? "
At length, one morning, La Esmeralda, having
advanced to the parapet of the roof, was looking
at the place, over the sharp roof of St. Jean le
Rond. Quasimodo was behind her. He stationed
himself there on purpose to spare the damsel the
disagreeable spectacle of his ungainly person. On
a sudden the Bohemian shuddered : a tear and a
flash of joy sparkled at once in her eyes : she fell
on her knees, and extended her arms in anguish
towards the place, crying, " Phoebus ! come !
come ! one word, a single word, for God's sake I
Phœbus ! Phœbus ! " Her voice, her face, her
attitude, her whole figure, had the agonizing ex-
pression of a shipwrecked person who is making
signals of distress to a distant vessel sailing gayly
along in the sunshine.
Quasimodo, bending forward, perceived that the
object of this wild and tender appeal was a young
and handsome horseman, a captain, glistening
with arms and accouterments, who passed cara-
coling through the place, and bowing to a fair
lady smiling m her balcony. The officer was too
far off to hear the call of the unhappy girl.
But the poor deaf bell-ringer understood it. A
deep sigh heaved his breast ; he turned round ;
his heart was swollen with the tears which he re-
pressed ; he dashed his convulsive fists against
his head, and when he removed them there was in
each of them a handful of red hair.
The Egyptian paid no attention to him. Gnash-
ing his teeth, he said, in a low tone, " Perdition I
That is how one ought to look, then ! One need
but have a handsome outside ! "
She continued meanwhile upon her knees, and
cried, with vehement agitation, "Oh! there he
alights ! He is going into that house !—Phœbus !
Phœbus ! He does not hear me ! Phœbus ! Oh I
the spiteful woman to talk to him at the same
time that I do !   Phœbus ! Phœbus ! "
The deaf bell-ringer watched her. He compre-
hended this pantomime. The poor fellow's eye
filled with tears, but he suffered none of them to
escape. All at once he gently pulled her sleeve.
She turned round. He had assumed a look of
composure, and said to her, "Shall I go and fetch
him?"
She gave a cry of joy. "Oh! go, go! run!
quick ! that captain ! that captain ! bring him to
me! I will love thee!" She clasped his knees.
He could not help shaking his head sorrowfully..
" I will go and bring him to you," said he, in a
faint voice. He then retired and hurried down
the staircase, stifled with sobs.
When he reached the place, nothing was to be
seen but the fine horse fastened to the gate of the
Gondelaurier mansion. The captain had just en-
tered. He looked up to the roof of the church.
La Esmeralda was still at the same place, in the
same posture. He made her a sad sign with his
head, and leaned with his back against one of the
pillars of the porch, determined to await the cap-
tain's departure.                                     ¦¦      ,
In that house it was one of those festive days
which precede a wedding. Quasimodo saw many
persons enter, but nobody came out. Every now
and then, he looked up at the roof ; the Egyptian
did not stir anymore than he. A groom came
and untied the horse, and led him to the stawe-
The whole day passed in this manner—yuasi-
modo at the pillar. La Esmeralda on the rooi,
and  Phœbus no doubt at the feet of Fleur-de-
At length night arrived ; a night without a
moon, a dark night. To no purpose did yuasi-
modo keep his eye fixed on La Esmeralda , sne
soon appeared to be but a white spot m tne
twilight, which became more and more mais-