A few moments later our poet found himself in a tiny arched chamber,very cosy, very warm, seated at a table which appeared to ask nothingbetter than to make some loans from a larder hanging near by, havinga good bed in prospect, and alone with a pretty girl. The adventuresmacked of enchantment. He began seriously to take himself for apersonage in a fairy tale; he cast his eyes about him from time totime to time, as though to see if the chariot of fire, harnessed totwo-winged chimeras, which alone could have so rapidly transported himfrom Tartarus to Paradise, were still there. At times, also, he fixedhis eyes obstinately upon the holes in his doublet, in order to clingto reality, and not lose the ground from under his feet completely. Hisreason, tossed about in imaginary space, now hung only by this thread.
The young girl did not appear to pay any attention to him; she went andcame, displaced a stool, talked to her goat, and indulged in a poutnow and then. At last she came and seated herself near the table, andGringoire was able to scrutinize her at his ease.
You have been a child, reader, and you would, perhaps, be very happy tobe one still. It is quite certain that you have not, more than once (andfor my part, I have passed whole days, the best employed of my life, atit) followed from thicket to thicket, by the side of running water, on asunny day, a beautiful green or blue dragon-fly, breaking its flight inabrupt angles, and kissing the tips of all the branches. You recollectwith what amorous curiosity your thought and your gaze were rivetedupon this little whirlwind, hissing and humming with wings of purple andazure, in the midst of which floated an imperceptible body, veiled bythe very rapidity of its movement. The aerial being which was dimlyoutlined amid this quivering of wings, appeared to you chimerical,imaginary, impossible to touch, impossible to see. But when, at length,the dragon-fly alighted on the tip of a reed, and, holding your breaththe while, you were able to examine the long, gauze wings, the longenamel robe, the two globes of crystal, what astonishment you felt, andwhat fear lest you should again behold the form disappear into a shade,and the creature into a chimera! Recall these impressions, and you willreadily appreciate what Gringoire felt on contemplating, beneath hervisible and palpable form, that Esmeralda of whom, up to that time,he had only caught a glimpse, amidst a whirlwind of dance, song, andtumult.
Sinking deeper and deeper into his revery: "So this," he said tohimself, following her vaguely with his eyes, "is la Esmeralda! acelestial creature! a street dancer! so much, and so little! 'Twas shewho dealt the death-blow to my mystery this morning, 'tis she who savesmy life this evening! My evil genius! My good angel! A pretty woman,on my word! and who must needs love me madly to have taken me in thatfashion. By the way," said he, rising suddenly, with that sentimentof the true which formed the foundation of his character and hisphilosophy, "I don't know very well how it happens, but I am herhusband!"
With this idea in his head and in his eyes, he stepped up to the younggirl in a manner so military and so gallant that she drew back.
"What do you want of me?" said she.
"Can you ask me, adorable Esmeralda?" replied Gringoire, with sopassionate an accent that he was himself astonished at it on hearinghimself speak.
The gypsy opened her great eyes. "I don't know what you mean."
"What!" resumed Gringoire, growing warmer and warmer, and supposingthat, after all, he had to deal merely with a virtue of the Cour desMiracles; "am I not thine, sweet friend, art thou not mine?"
And, quite ingenuously, he clasped her waist.
The gypsy's corsage slipped through his hands like the skin of an eel.She bounded from one end of the tiny room to the other, stooped down,and raised herself again, with a little poniard in her hand, beforeGringoire had even had time to see whence the poniard came; proud andangry, with swelling lips and inflated nostrils, her cheeks as red as anapi apple,* and her eyes darting lightnings. At the same time, the whitegoat placed itself in front of her, and presented to Gringoire a hostilefront, bristling with two pretty horns, gilded and very sharp. All thistook place in the twinkling of an eye.
* A small dessert apple, bright red on one side and greenish-white on the other.
The dragon-fly had turned into a wasp, and asked nothing better than tosting.
Our philosopher was speechless, and turned his astonished eyes from thegoat to the young girl. "Holy Virgin!" he said at last, when surprisepermitted him to speak, "here are two hearty dames!"
The gypsy broke the silence on her side.
"You must be a very bold knave!"
"Pardon, mademoiselle," said Gringoire, with a smile. "But why did youtake me for your husband?"
"Should I have allowed you to be hanged?"
"So," said the poet, somewhat disappointed in his amorous hopes. "Youhad no other idea in marrying me than to save me from the gibbet?"
"And what other idea did you suppose that I had?"
Gringoire bit his lips. "Come," said he, "I am not yet so triumphant inCupido, as I thought. But then, what was the good of breaking that poorjug?"
Meanwhile Esmeralda's dagger and the goat's horns were still upon thedefensive.
"Mademoiselle Esmeralda," said the poet, "let us come to terms. I amnot a clerk of the court, and I shall not go to law with you forthus carrying a dagger in Paris, in the teeth of the ordinances andprohibitions of M. the Provost. Nevertheless, you are not ignorant ofthe fact that Noel Lescrivain was condemned, a week ago, to pay tenParisian sous, for having carried a cutlass. But this is no affair ofmine, and I will come to the point. I swear to you, upon my share ofParadise, not to approach you without your leave and permission, but dogive me some supper."
The truth is, Gringoire was, like M. Despreaux, "not very voluptuous."He did not belong to that chevalier and musketeer species, who takeyoung girls by assault. In the matter of love, as in all other affairs,he willingly assented to temporizing and adjusting terms; and a goodsupper, and an amiable tete-a-tete appeared to him, especially whenhe was hungry, an excellent interlude between the prologue and thecatastrophe of a love adventure.
The gypsy did not reply. She made her disdainful little grimace, drewup her head like a bird, then burst out laughing, and the tiny poniarddisappeared as it had come, without Gringoire being able to see wherethe wasp concealed its sting.
A moment later, there stood upon the table a loaf of rye bread, a sliceof bacon, some wrinkled apples and a jug of beer. Gringoire began to eateagerly. One would have said, to hear the furious clashing of hisiron fork and his earthenware plate, that all his love had turned toappetite.
The young girl seated opposite him, watched him in silence, visiblypreoccupied with another thought, at which she smiled from time to time,while her soft hand caressed the intelligent head of the goat, gentlypressed between her knees.
A candle of yellow wax illuminated this scene of voracity and revery.
Meanwhile, the first cravings of his stomach having been stilled,Gringoire felt some false shame at perceiving that nothing remained butone apple.
"You do not eat, Mademoiselle Esmeralda?"
She replied by a negative sign of the head, and her pensive glance fixeditself upon the vault of the ceiling.
"What the deuce is she thinking of?" thought Gringoire, staring at whatshe was gazing at; "'tis impossible that it can be that stone dwarfcarved in the keystone of that arch, which thus absorbs her attention.What the deuce! I can bear the comparison!"
He raised his voice, "Mademoiselle!"
She seemed not to hear him.
He repeated, still more loudly, "Mademoiselle Esmeralda!"
Trouble wasted. The young girl's mind was elsewhere, and Gringoire'svoice had not the power to recall it. Fortunately, the goat interfered.She began to pull her mistress gently by the sleeve.
"What dost thou want, Djali?" said the gypsy, hastily, as thoughsuddenly awakened.
"She is hungry," said Gringoire, charmed to enter into conversation.Esmeralda began to crumble some bread, which Djali ate gracefully fromthe hollow of her hand.
Moreover, G
ringoire did not give her time to resume her revery. Hehazarded a delicate question.
"So you don't want me for your husband?"
The young girl looked at him intently, and said, "No."
"For your lover?" went on Gringoire.
She pouted, and replied, "No."
"For your friend?" pursued Gringoire.
She gazed fixedly at him again, and said, after a momentary reflection,"Perhaps."
This "perhaps," so dear to philosophers, emboldened Gringoire.
"Do you know what friendship is?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the gypsy; "it is to be brother and sister; two soulswhich touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand."
"And love?" pursued Gringoire.
"Oh! love!" said she, and her voice trembled, and her eye beamed. "Thatis to be two and to be but one. A man and a woman mingled into oneangel. It is heaven."
The street dancer had a beauty as she spoke thus, that struck Gringoiresingularly, and seemed to him in perfect keeping with the almostoriental exaltation of her words. Her pure, red lips half smiled;her serene and candid brow became troubled, at intervals, under herthoughts, like a mirror under the breath; and from beneath her long,drooping, black eyelashes, there escaped a sort of ineffable light,which gave to her profile that ideal serenity which Raphael found at themystic point of intersection of virginity, maternity, and divinity.
Nevertheless, Gringoire continued,--
"What must one be then, in order to please you?"
"A man."
"And I--" said he, "what, then, am I?"
"A man has a hemlet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurson his heels."
"Good," said Gringoire, "without a horse, no man. Do you love any one?"
"As a lover?--"
"Yes."
She remained thoughtful for a moment, then said with a peculiarexpression: "That I shall know soon."
"Why not this evening?" resumed the poet tenderly. "Why not me?"
She cast a grave glance upon him and said,--
"I can never love a man who cannot protect me."
Gringoire colored, and took the hint. It was evident that the young girlwas alluding to the slight assistance which he had rendered her in thecritical situation in which she had found herself two hours previously.This memory, effaced by his own adventures of the evening, now recurredto him. He smote his brow.
"By the way, mademoiselle, I ought to have begun there. Pardon myfoolish absence of mind. How did you contrive to escape from the clawsof Quasimodo?"
This question made the gypsy shudder.
"Oh! the horrible hunchback," said she, hiding her face in her hands.And she shuddered as though with violent cold.
"Horrible, in truth," said Gringoire, who clung to his idea; "but howdid you manage to escape him?"
La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and remained silent.
"Do you know why he followed you?" began Gringoire again, seeking toreturn to his question by a circuitous route.
"I don't know," said the young girl, and she added hastily, "but youwere following me also, why were you following me?"
"In good faith," responded Gringoire, "I don't know either."
Silence ensued. Gringoire slashed the table with his knife. The younggirl smiled and seemed to be gazing through the wall at something. Allat once she began to sing in a barely articulate voice,--
_Quando las pintadas aves, Mudas estan, y la tierra_--*
* When the gay-plumaged birds grow weary, and the earth--
She broke off abruptly, and began to caress Djali.
"That's a pretty animal of yours," said Gringoire.
"She is my sister," she answered.
"Why are you called 'la Esmeralda?'" asked the poet.
"I do not know."
"But why?"
She drew from her bosom a sort of little oblong bag, suspended from herneck by a string of adrezarach beads. This bag exhaled a strong odor ofcamphor. It was covered with green silk, and bore in its centre a largepiece of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.
"Perhaps it is because of this," said she.
Gringoire was on the point of taking the bag in his hand. She drew back.
"Don't touch it! It is an amulet. You would injure the charm or thecharm would injure you."
The poet's curiosity was more and more aroused.
"Who gave it to you?"
She laid one finger on her mouth and concealed the amulet in her bosom.He tried a few more questions, but she hardly replied.
"What is the meaning of the words, 'la Esmeralda?'"
"I don't know," said she.
"To what language do they belong?"
"They are Egyptian, I think."
"I suspected as much," said Gringoire, "you are not a native of France?"
"I don't know."
"Are your parents alive?"
She began to sing, to an ancient air,--
_Mon pere est oiseau, Ma mere est oiselle. Je passe l'eau sans nacelle, Je passe l'eau sans bateau, Ma mere est oiselle, Mon pere est oiseau_.*
* My father is a bird, my mother is a bird. I cross thewater without a barque, I cross the water without a boat. My mother is abird, my father is a bird.
"Good," said Gringoire. "At what age did you come to France?"
"When I was very young."
"And when to Paris?"
"Last year. At the moment when we were entering the papal gate I sawa reed warbler flit through the air, that was at the end of August; Isaid, it will be a hard winter."
"So it was," said Gringoire, delighted at this beginning of aconversation. "I passed it in blowing my fingers. So you have the giftof prophecy?"
She retired into her laconics again.
"Is that man whom you call the Duke of Egypt, the chief of your tribe?"
"Yes."
"But it was he who married us," remarked the poet timidly.
She made her customary pretty grimace.
"I don't even know your name."
"My name? If you want it, here it is,--Pierre Gringoire."
"I know a prettier one," said she.
"Naughty girl!" retorted the poet. "Never mind, you shall not provokeme. Wait, perhaps you will love me more when you know me better; andthen, you have told me your story with so much confidence, that Iowe you a little of mine. You must know, then, that my name is PierreGringoire, and that I am a son of the farmer of the notary's officeof Gonesse. My father was hung by the Burgundians, and my motherdisembowelled by the Picards, at the siege of Paris, twenty years ago.At six years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a sole tomy foot except the pavements of Paris. I do not know how I passed theinterval from six to sixteen. A fruit dealer gave me a plum here, abaker flung me a crust there; in the evening I got myself taken upby the watch, who threw me into prison, and there I found a bundle ofstraw. All this did not prevent my growing up and growing thin, as yousee. In the winter I warmed myself in the sun, under the porch of theHotel de Sens, and I thought it very ridiculous that the fire on SaintJohn's Day was reserved for the dog days. At sixteen, I wished to choosea calling. I tried all in succession. I became a soldier; but I was notbrave enough. I became a monk; but I was not sufficiently devout; andthen I'm a bad hand at drinking. In despair, I became an apprenticeof the woodcutters, but I was not strong enough; I had more of aninclination to become a schoolmaster; 'tis true that I did not know howto read, but that's no reason. I perceived at the end of a certain time,that I lacked something in every direction; and seeing that I was goodfor nothing, of my own free will I became a poet and rhymester. Thatis a trade which one can always adopt when one is a vagabond, and it'sbetter than stealing, as some young brigands of my acquaintance advisedme to do. One day I met by luck, Dom Claude Frollo, the reverendarchdeacon of Notre-Dame. He took an interest in me, and it is to himthat I to-day owe it that I am a veritable man of letters, who knowsLatin from the _de Officiis_ of Cicero to the mortuology of theCelestine Fathers, and a
barbarian neither in scholastics, nor inpolitics, nor in rhythmics, that sophism of sophisms. I am the authorof the Mystery which was presented to-day with great triumph and a greatconcourse of populace, in the grand hall of the Palais de Justice.I have also made a book which will contain six hundred pages, on thewonderful comet of 1465, which sent one man mad. I have enjoyed stillother successes. Being somewhat of an artillery carpenter, I lent a handto Jean Mangue's great bombard, which burst, as you know, on the daywhen it was tested, on the Pont de Charenton, and killed four and twentycurious spectators. You see that I am not a bad match in marriage. Iknow a great many sorts of very engaging tricks, which I will teach yourgoat; for example, to mimic the Bishop of Paris, that cursed Phariseewhose mill wheels splash passers-by the whole length of the Pont auxMeuniers. And then my mystery will bring me in a great deal of coinedmoney, if they will only pay me. And finally, I am at your orders, I andmy wits, and my science and my letters, ready to live with you, damsel,as it shall please you, chastely or joyously; husband and wife, if yousee fit; brother and sister, if you think that better."
Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of his harangue on the young girl.Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"'Phoebus,'" she said in a low voice. Then, turning towards the poet,"'Phoebus',--what does that mean?"
Gringoire, without exactly understanding what the connection could bebetween his address and this question, was not sorry to display hiserudition. Assuming an air of importance, he replied,--
"It is a Latin word which means 'sun.'"
"Sun!" she repeated.
"It is the name of a handsome archer, who was a god," added Gringoire.
"A god!" repeated the gypsy, and there was something pensive andpassionate in her tone.
At that moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened and fell.Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up; when he straightened up, theyoung girl and the goat had disappeared. He heard the sound of a bolt.It was a little door, communicating, no doubt, with a neighboring cell,which was being fastened on the outside.
"Has she left me a bed, at least?" said our philosopher.
He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture adapted tosleeping purposes, except a tolerably long wooden coffer; and its coverwas carved, to boot; which afforded Gringoire, when he stretched himselfout upon it, a sensation somewhat similar to that which Micromegas wouldfeel if he were to lie down on the Alps.
"Come!" said he, adjusting himself as well as possible, "I must resignmyself. But here's a strange nuptial night. 'Tis a pity. There wassomething innocent and antediluvian about that broken crock, which quitepleased me."
BOOK THIRD.
CHAPTER I. NOTRE-DAME.