By a sudden, rapid movement Ph?bus snatched the gipsy’s kerchief completely off her neck. The poor girl, who had sat pale and dreamy, started from her reverie. She brusquely tore herself away from the too enterprising young officer, and catching sight of her bare neck and shoulders, blushing, confused, and mute with shame, she crossed her beautiful arms over her bosom to hide it. But for the flame that burned in her cheeks, to see her thus standing, silent and motionless, with drooping eyes, you would have taken her for a statue of Modesty.
But this action of the captain’s had laid bare the mysterious amulet which she wore round her neck.
“What is that?” he asked, seizing this pretext for once more approaching the beautiful creature he had frightened away.
“Do not touch it,” she answered quickly, “it is my protection.
Through it I shall find my parents again if I remain worthy of that. Oh, leave me, Monsieur le Capitaine! Mother! my poor mother! where art thou? Come to my aid! Have pity, Monsieur Ph?bus— give me back my kerchief to cover my bosom.”
But Ph?bus drew back coldly. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said, “I see very plainly that you do not love me!”
“Not love him!” cried the poor unhappy child, clinging wildly to him and drawing him down to the seat beside her. “I do not love thee, my Ph?bus? What words are these, cruel, to rend my heart! Oh, come— take me! take all! do with me what thou wilt! I am thine. What matters the amulet! What is my mother to me now! Thou art father and mother to me now, since I love thee! Ph?bus, beloved, look at me— see, ’tis I— ’tis that poor little one whom thou wilt not spurn from thee, and who comes, who comes herself to seek thee. My soul, my life, myself— all, all belong to thee, my captain. Well, so be it— we will not marry, since it is not thy wish. Besides, what am I but a miserable child of the gutter, while thou, my Ph?bus, art a gentleman. A fine thing, truly! A dancing girl to espouse an officer! I was mad! No, Ph?bus, I will be thy paramour, thy toy, thy pleasure— what thou wilt— only something that belongs to thee— for what else was I made? Soiled, despised, dishonoured, what care I? if only I be loved I shall be the proudest and happiest of women. And when I shall be old and ugly, when I am no longer worthy of your love, monseigneur, you will suffer me to serve you. Others will embroider scarfs for you— I, the handmaid, will have care of them. You will let me polish your spurs, brush your doublet, and rub the dust from off your riding-boots— will you not, Ph?bus? You will grant me so much? And meanwhile, take me— I am thine— only love me! We gipsies, that is all we ask— love and the free air of heaven!”
Speaking thus, she threw her arms round the soldier’s neck and raised her eyes to his in fond entreaty, smiling through her tears. Her tender bosom was chafed by the woollen doublet and its rough embroidery as the fair, half-nude form clung to his breast. The captain, quite intoxicated, pressed his lips to those exquisite shoulders, and the girl, lying back in his arms, with half-closed eyes, glowed and trembled under his kisses.
Suddenly above the head of Ph?bus she beheld another head— a livid, convulsed face with the look as of one of the damned, and beside that face a raised hand holding a dagger. It was the face and the hand of the priest. He had broken in the door and stood behind the pair. Ph?bus could not see him. The girl lay motionless, petrified and speechless with terror at the appalling apparition, like a dove that raises her head and catches the terrible keen eye of the hawk fixed upon her nest.
She was unable even to cry out. She saw the dagger descend upon Ph?bus and rise again, reeking.
“Malediction!” groaned the captain, and fell.
The girl swooned, but at the moment ere her eyes closed and she lost all consciousness, she seemed to feel a fiery pressure on her lips, a kiss more searing than the brand of the torturer.
When she came to her senses she found herself surrounded by the soldiers of the watch; the captain was being borne away bathed in his blood, the priest had vanished, the window at the back of the room overlooking the river was wide open; they picked up a cloak which they supposed to belong to the officer, and she heard them saying to one another:
“It is a witch who has stabbed a captain.”
BOOK VIII
Chapter 1 - The Crown Piece changed into A Withered Leaf
Gringoire and the whole Court of Miracles were in a state of mortal anxiety. For a whole long month nobody knew what had become of Esmeralda, which greatly distressed the Duke of Egypt and his friends the Vagabonds— nor what had become of her goat, which doubled the distress of Gringoire. One evening the Egyptian had disappeared, and from that moment had given no sign of life. All searching and inquiries had been fruitless. Some malicious beggars declared that they had met her on the evening in question in the neighbourhood of the Pont Saint-Michel in company with an officer, but this husband á la mode de Bohème was a most incredulous philosopher, and, besides, he knew better than any one to what extent his wife was still a maid. He had had an opportunity of judging how impregnable was the chastity resulting from the combined virtues of the amulet and the gipsy’s own feelings, and he had mathematically calculated the power of resistance of the last-mentioned factor. On that score, therefore, he was quite easy.
Consequently he was quite unable to account for this disappearance, which was a source of profound regret to him. He would have lost flesh over it had such a thing been possible. As it was, he had forgotten everything over this subject, even to his literary tastes, even to his great opus: Dc figuris regularibus et irregularibus, which he counted on getting printed as soon as he had any money. For he raved about printing ever since he had seen the Didascolon of Hugues de Saint-Victor printed with the famous types of Wendelin of Spires.
One day, as he was passing dejectedly before the Tournelle Criminelle, he observed a small crowd at one of the doors of the Palais de Justice.
“What is going on?” he asked of a young man who was coming out.
“I do not know, sir,” replied the young man. “They say a woman is being tried for the murder of a soldier. As there would seem to be some witchcraft in the business, the Bishop and the Holy Office have interfered in the case, and my brother, who is Archdeacon of Josas, spends his whole time there. As it happened, I wished to speak with him, but I could not get near him for the crowd— which annoys me very much, for I want money.”
“Alack, sir,” said Gringoire, “I would I had any to lend you, but though my breeches pockets are in holes, it is not from the weight of coin in them.”
He did not venture to tell the youth that he knew his brother the Archdeacon, whom he had never visited since the scene in the church— a neglect which smote his conscience.
The scholar went his way, and Gringoire proceeded to follow the crowd ascending the stairs to the court-room. To his mind, there was nothing equal to the spectacle of a trial for dissipating melancholy, the judges exhibiting, as a rule, such extremely diverting stupidity. The crowd with whom he mingled walked and elbowed one another in silence. After a protracted and uneventful pilgrimage through a long dark passage which wound through the Palais like the intestinal canal of the old edifice, he arrived at a low door opening into a court-room which his superior height enabled him to explore over the swaying heads of the multitude.
The hall was vast and shadowy, which made it appear still larger. The day was declining, the long pointed windows admitted only a few pale rays of light, which died out before they reached the vaulted ceiling, an enormous trellis-work of carved wood, the thousand figures of which seemed to stir confusedly in the gloom. Several candles were already lighted on the tables, and gleamed on the heads of the law clerks buried in bundles of documents. The lower end of the hall was occupied by the crowd; to right and left sat gowned lawyers at tables; at the other extremity upon a raised platform were a number of judges, the back rows plunged in darkness— motionless and sinister figures. The walls were closely powdered with fleurs-de-lis, a great figure of Christ might be vaguely distinguished above the heads of the judges, and everywhere pikes and halberds, their points tipped with fire by the glimmering rays of the candles.
“Sir,” said Gringoire to one of his neighbours, “who are all those persons yonder, ranged like prelates in council?”
“Sir,” answered the man, “those on the right are the Councillors of the High Court, and those on the left the Examining Councillors— the ma?tres in black gowns, the messires in red ones.”
“And above them, there,” continued Gringoire, “who is the big, red-faced one sweating so profusely?”
“That is Monsieur the President.”
“And those sheepsheads behind him?” Gringoire went on — we know that he had no great love for the magistrature, owing, may-be, to the grudge he bore against the Palais de Justice ever since his dramatic misadventure.
“Those are the lawyers of the Court of Appeal of the Royal Palace.”
“And that wild boar in front of them?”
“Is the Clerk of the Court of Parliaments.”
“And that crocodile to the right of him?”
“Ma?tre Philippe Lheulier, King’s advocate extraordinary.”
“And to the left, that big black cat?”
“Ma?tre Jacques Charmolue, procurator in the Ecclesiastical Court, with the members of the Holy Office.”
“And may I ask, sir,” said Gringoire, “what all these worthies are about?”
“They are trying some one.”
“Trying whom? I see no prisoner.”
“It is a woman, sir. You cannot see her. She has her back turned to us, and is hidden by the crowd. Look, she is over there where you see that group of partisans.”
“Who is the woman?” asked Gringoire; “do you know her name?”
“No, sir, I have but just arrived. I conclude, however, from the presence of the Office that there is some question of witchcraft in the matter.”
“Ah, ha!” said our philosopher, “so we shall have the pleasure of seeing these black gowns devouring human flesh! Well, it is a spectacle as good as any other.”
“Do you not think, sir, that Ma?tre Jacques Charmolue has a very kindly air?” observed his neighbour.
“Hum!” responded Gringoire. “I am somewhat distrustful of kindness that has such thin nostrils and sharp lips.”
Here the bystanders imposed silence on the two talkers. An important deposition was being heard.
“My lords,” an old woman was saying, whose face and shape generally was so muffled in her garments that she looked like an animated heap of rags; “my lords, the thing is as true as that I am La Falourdel, for forty years a householder on the Pont Saint-Michel, and paying regularly all rents and dues and ground taxes— the door opposite to the house of Tassin-Caillart, the dyer, which is on the side looking up the river. A poor old woman now, a pretty girl once-a-days, my lords! Only a few days before, they said to me: ’La Falourdel, do not spin too much of an evening, the devil is fond of combing old women’s distaffs with his horns. ’Tis certain that the spectre-monk who haunted the Temple last year is going about the city just now; take care, La Falourdel, that he does not knock at your door.’ I ask who’s there. Some one swears. I open the door. Two men come in— a man in black with a handsome officer. You could see nothing of the black man but his eyes— two live coals— all the rest hat and cloak. So they say to me: ’The Sainte-Marthe room’— that is my upper room, my lords, my best one, and they give me a crown. I shut the crown in a drawer, and says I: ’That will do to buy tripe to-morrow at the slaughter-house of La Gloriette.’ We go upstairs. Arrived at the upper room, as I turn my back a moment, the man in black disappears. This astonishes me somewhat. The officer, who was handsome and grand as a lord, comes down again with me. He leaves the house, but in about the time to spin a quarter of a skein he returns with a beautiful young girl— a poppet who would have shone like a star had her locks been properly braided. Following her came a goat— a great goat— whether black or white I can’t remember. This set me to thinking. The girl— that does not concern me— but the goat! I don’t like those animals with their beards and horns— it’s too like a man. Besides, that smells of witch-craft. However, I say nothing. I had the crown piece. That is only fair, is it not, my lord judge? So I show the captain and the girl into the upper room and leave them alone— that is to say, with the goat. I go down and get to my spinning again. I must tell you that my house has a ground floor and an upper storey; the back looks out on to the river, as do all the houses on the bridge, and the groundfloor window and the window of the upper floor open on to the water. Well, as I was saying, I sat down again to my spinning. I don’t know why, but I began thinking about the spectre-monk whom the goat had brought to my mind, and that the pretty girl was dressed very outlandish, when all at once I hear a cry overhead and something fall on the floor, and then the window opening. I run to mine, which is just underneath, and see a black mass drop into the water— a phantom dressed like a priest. It was moonlight, so I saw it quite plainly. It swam away towards the city. Then, all of a tremble, I called the watch. The gentlemen of the guard came in, and at first, not knowing what was the matter, they made merry over it and began to beat me. I explained to them. We go upstairs, and what do we find? My unfortunate room swimming in blood, the captain stretched his whole length on the floor with a dagger in his neck, the girl making as if she were dead, and the goat in a fury. ’A pretty business,’ say I. ’’Twill be a fortnight’s work to clean up these boards. It must be scraped— a terrible job!’ They carried away the officer, poor young man, and the girl— halfnaked. But stay— the worst is to come. The next morning, when I went to take the crown to buy my tripe, I found a withered leaf in its place!”
The old beldame ceased. A murmur of horror went round the place. “That phantom, that goat— all this savours of magic,” said one of Gringoire’s neighbours. “And that withered leaf,” added another. “There can be no doubt,” went on a third, “that it’s some witch who has commerce with the spectre-monk to plunder officers.” Gringoire himself was not far from thinking this connection both probable and alarming.
“Woman Falourdel,” said the President with majesty, “have you nothing further to declare to the court?”
“No, my lord,” answered the woman, “unless that in the report my house has been named a tumble-down and stinking hovel, which is insulting language. The houses on the bridge are not very handsome, because they swarm with people; but, nevertheless, the butchers live there, and they are wealthy men with handsome and careful wives.”
