He made the sign of the cross, rose to his feet, replaced his hat, and turned to Tristan. “Make all speed, Compére. Take M. de Chateaupers with you. You will sound the tocsin, crush the people, hang the witch—that is all. You will defray all the charges of the execution and bring me the account. Come, Olivier, I shall not go to bed to-night. Shave me.”
Tristan l’Hermite bowed and left. The King then dismissed Rym and Coppenole with a wave of the hand. “God keep you, my good Flemish friends. Go and take a little rest. The night is far advanced, and we are nearer the morning than the evening.”
They both withdrew. On reaching their apartments under the escort of the captain of the Bastille, Coppenole remarked to Rym, “Hum! I’ve had enough of this coughing King. I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, but he was not near so wicked as Louis XI sick.”
“Ma?tre Jacques,” returned Rym, “that is because kings are not half so bloodthirsty in their wine as in their medicine-cups.”
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1 Without steward or cup-bearer.
2 Pulse rapid, full, jerking, irregular.
Chapter 6 - The Pass-Word
On quitting the Bastille, Gringoire fled down the Rue Saint-Antoine with the speed of a runaway horse. Arrived at the Baudoyer Gate, he made straight for the stone cross in the middle of the square as if he discerned in the dark the figure of a man, clothed and hooded in black, sitting upon its steps.
“Is that you, master?” said Gringoire.
The figure rose. “Death and hell! you drive me mad, Gringoire. The watch on the tower of Saint-Gervais has just called the half after one.”
“It is no fault of mine,” returned Gringoire, “but of the watch and the King. I’ve had a narrow escape. I always miss being hanged within an ace. It is my predestination.”
“You miss everything,” retorted the other. “But come quickly now. Hast thou the pass-word?”
“Only think, master, I have seen the King. I’ve just left him. He wears worsted breeches. It was an adventure, I can tell you!”
“Oh, clappering mill-wheel of words! what’s thy adventure to me? Hast thou the truands’ pass-word?”
“I have it. Make yourself easy. ‘Dagger in pouch.” ’
“Good! Without it we could not get through to the church; the truands block the streets. Luckily, they seem to have met with some opposition. We may yet arrive in time.”
“Yes, master; but how are we to gain entrance into Notre-Dame?”
“I have the key of the tower.”
“And how shall we get out again?”
“There is a small door at the back of the cloister opening on to the Terrain and the waterside. I have got the key, and I moored a boat there this morning.”
“I had a near shave of being hanged,” repeated Gringoire.
“Quick, then, let us be going!” said the other; and both started off at full speed towards the city.
Chapter 7 - Chateaupers to The Rescue
The reader probably remembers the critical situation in which we left Quasimodo. The doughty hunchback, assailed on all sides, had lost, if not his courage, at least all hope of saving, not himself—for of that he took no thought—but the Egyptian. He ran distractedly along the gallery. Notre-Dame was on the point of being carried by the truands. Suddenly the thunder of galloping hoofs filled the adjacent streets, and with a long file of torches and a dense column of horsemen, lances down and bridles hanging loose, the furious sound swept into the Place like a hurricane.
“France! France! Cut down the rabble! Chateaupers to the rescue! Provostry! Provostry!”
These were, of course, the troops despatched by the King.
The startled truands faced about.
Quasimodo, though he heard nothing, saw the naked swords, the torches, the lances, the mass of cavalry, at the head of which he recognised Captain Ph?bus. He saw the confusion of the truands, the terror of some, the consternation of the stoutest-hearted among them, and the unexpected succour so revived his energy that he hurled back the foremost of the assailants who had already gained a footing on the gallery.
The truands bore themselves bravely, defending themselves with the energy of despair. Attacked on the flank from the Rue Saint-Pierre-aux-B?ufs, and in the rear from the Rue du Parvis, jammed against Notre-Dame, which they were attacking and Quasimodo still defending—at once besiegers and besieged—they were in the peculiar position in which Count Henry d’Harcourt found himself at the famous siege of Turin in 1640, between Prince Thomas of Savoy, whom he was besieging, and the Marquis de Langane, who, in turn, was blockading him—Taurinum obsessor idem et obsessus1—as his epitaph expresses it.
The mêlée was terrific. “To wolves’ flesh dogs’ teeth,” says Father Mathieu. The King’s horsemen, among whom Ph?bus de Chateaupers displayed great valour, gave no quarter, and they that escaped the lance fell by the sword. The truands, ill-armed, foamed and bit in rage and despair. Men, women, and children fastened themselves on the flanks and chests of the horses, clinging to them tooth and nail, like cats; others battered the faces of the archers with their torches; others, again, caught the horsemen by the neck in their iron bill-hooks, striving to pull them down. Those who fell, they tore to pieces.
One among them had a long and glittering scythe, with which, for a long time, he mowed the legs of the horses. It was an appalling sight. On he came, singing a droning song and taking long sweeping strokes with his deadly scythe.
At every stroke he laid around him a circle of severed limbs. He advanced in this manner into the thickest of the cavalry, calm and unhasting, with the even swing of the head and regular breathing of a reaper cutting a field of corn. It was Clopin Trouillefou. A volley of musketry laid him low.
In the meantime the windows had opened again. The burghers, hearing the war-cry of the King’s men, had taken part in the affray, and from every storey bullets rained upon the truands. The Parvis was thick with smoke streaked with the flashing fire of the musketry. Through it the facade of Notre-Dame was dimly discernible, and the tumble-down H?tel-Dieu, with a wan face or two peering frightened from its many windowed roofs.
At last the truands gave way. Exhaustion, want of proper arms, the alarming effect of this surprise, the volleys from the windows, the spirited charge of the King’s men—all combined to overpower them. Breaking through the line of their assailants, they fled in all directions, leaving the Parvis heaped with their dead.
When Quasimodo, who had not for a moment ceased fighting, beheld this rout, he fell upon his knees and lifted his hands to heaven. Then, frenzied with joy, he ran to the stairs, and ascended with the swiftness of a bird to that cell, the approaches to which he had so intrepidly defended. He had but one thought now—to go and fall on his knees at the feet of her whom he had saved for the second time.
He entered the cell—it was empty.
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1 Besieger of Turin and himself besieged.
BOOK XI
Chapter 1 - The Little Shoe
At the moment the truands attacked the Cathedral, Esmeralda was asleep.
But soon the ever-increasing uproar round the church, and the bleating of her goat—awakened before herself—broke these slumbers. She sat up, listened, looked around; then, frightened at the glare and the noise, hurried out of her cell to see what was the matter. The aspect of the Place, the strange visions moving in it, the disorder of this nocturnal assault, the hideous crowd dimly visible through the darkness, hopping about like a cloud of frogs, the hoarse croaking of the multitude, the scattered red torches flitting to and fro in the storm like will-o’-the-wisps flitting over the misty face of a swamp—all seemed to her like some mysterious battle between the phantoms of the witches’ Sabbath and the stone monsters of the Cathedral. Imbued from her childhood with the superstitions of the gipsy tribe, her first idea was that she had happened unawares on the Satanic rites of the weird beings proper to the night. Whereupon she hastened back to cower in her cell, asking of her humble couch some less horrible nightmare.
But, by degrees, the first fumes of her terror cleared away from her brain, and by the constantly increasing noise, and other signs of reality, she discovered that she was beset, not by spectres, but by human beings. At this her fear changed; not in degree, but in kind. The thought of the possibility of a popular rising to drag her from her place of refuge flashed into her mind. The prospect of once more losing life, hope, Ph?bus, who still was ever-present in her dreams of the future, her utter helplessness, all flight barred, her abandonment, her friendless state—these and a thousand other cruel thoughts overwhelmed her. She fell upon her knees, her head upon her couch, her hands clasped upon her head, overcome by anxiety and terror; and gipsy, idolatress, and pagan as she was, began with sobs and tremblings to ask mercy of the God of the Christians, and pray to Our Lady, her hostess. For, even though one believe in nothing, there come moments in life in which one instinctively turns to the religion of the temple nearest at hand.
She remained thus prostrated for a considerable time, trembling, in truth, more than she prayed, frozen with terror at the breath of that furious multitude coming ever nearer; ignorant of the nature of the storm, of what was in progress, what they were doing, what they wanted; but having the presentiment of some dreadful issue.
In the midst of this agonizing uncertainty, she heard footsteps near her. She raised her head. Two men, one of whom was carrying a lantern, entered her cell. She uttered a feeble cry.
“Fear nothing,”said a voice which sounded familiar to her, “it is I.”
“Who?”she asked.
“Pierre Gringoire.”
The name reassured her. She raised her eyes and saw it was indeed the poet. But at his side stood a dark figure shrouded from head to foot which struck her dumb with fear.
“Ah,”said Gringoire in reproachful tones, “Djali recognised me before you did.”
In truth, the little goat had not waited for Gringoire to name himself. He had scarcely crossed the threshold before she began rubbing herself fondly against his knee, covering the poet with caresses and with white hairs, for she was casting her coat, Gringoire returning her endearments.
“Who is that with you?”asked the Egyptian in a low voice.
“Make yourself easy,”answered Gringoire, “it is a friend of mine.”
Then, setting down his lantern, the philosopher seated himself on the floor, clasping Djali enthusiastically in his arms. “Oh, ’tis an engaging beast! More remarkable, no doubt, for its beauty and cleanliness than for its size; but ingenious, subtle, and lettered as a grammarian! Come, my Djali, let us see if thou hast not forgotten any of thy pretty tricks! How does Ma?tre Jacques Charmolue when—”
The man in black did not let him finish. He went up to him and pushed him roughly by the shoulder. Gringoire got up again. “You are right,”said he, “I had forgotten that we were in haste. However, that is no reason, master, for hustling people so roughly. My dear pretty one, your life is in danger, and Djali’s too. They want to hang you again. We are your friends, and have come to save you. Follow us.”
“Is that true?”she cried.
“Yes, quite true. Come without delay!”
“I will,”she faltered; “but why does not your friend speak?”
“Ah,”said Gringoire, “that is because his father and mother were somewhat fantastical people, and endowed him with a taciturn disposition.”
She had perforce to content herself with this explanation. Gringoire took her by the hand, his companion picked up the lantern and walked ahead of them. The poor girl was bewildered with fear and let herself be led, the goat came skipping after them, so overjoyed at seeing Gringoire once more that she made him stumble at every other step by thrusting her horns between his legs.
“Such is life,”said the philosopher as he just missed falling flat; “it is often our best friends that occasion our fall!”
They rapidly descended the stairs of the towers, crossed the church, which was dark and totally deserted but echoing with the frightful uproar without, and issued by the Porte Rouge into the court-yard of the cloister. The cloister was deserted, the clergy having taken refuge in the bishop’s house, there to offer up their prayers together. The court-yard was empty save for a few terrified lackeys crouching in the darkest corners. They made their way to the small door leading out of the court-yard to the Terrain. The man in black opened it with a key he carried with him. Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of land enclosed by walls on the side next the city, belonging to the chapter of Notre-Dame, and forming the end of the island on the east, behind the church. They found this enclosure perfectly solitary. Here, even the noise in the air was sensibly less, the clamour of the assault reaching their ears confusedly and deadened. They could now hear the rustling of the leaves of the solitary tree planted at the point of the Terrain as the fresh breeze swept up from the river. Nevertheless, they were still very close to danger. The buildings nearest them were the bishop’s residence and the church. There were visible signs of great confusion within the bishop’s residence. Its dark mass was streaked with lights flitting from window to window, just as after burning a piece of paper, bright sparks run in a thousand fantastic lines across the dark mound of ashes. Beside it, the huge black towers of Notre-Dame rearing themselves over the long nave, sharply outlined against the vast red glow which filled the Parvis, looked like the gigantic andirons of some Cyclopean fire-place.
What was visible of Paris on all sides seemed to float in a mingled atmosphere of light and shadow, such as Rembrandt has in some of his backgrounds.
The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the Terrain where, at the extreme edge of the water, were the decaying remains of a fence of stakes interlaced with laths, on which a low vine had spread its few starveling branches like the fingers of an open hand. Behind it, in the shadow of the fence, a little boat lay moored. The man motioned Gringoire and his companion to enter, and the goat jumped in after them. The man himself got in last. He cut the rope of the boat, pushed off from the shore with a long boat-hook, and seizing a pair of oars, seated himself in the bow and rowed with all his might out into mid-stream. The Seine runs very strong at this part, and he had considerable difficulty in clearing the point of the island.
Gringoire’s first care, on entering the boat, was to take the goat upon his knees. He settled himself in the stern, and the girl, whom the unknown man inspired with indefinable uneasiness, seated herself as close as possible to the poet.
As soon as our philosopher felt the boat in motion, he clapped his hands and kissed Djali between her horns.
