Notre-Dame de Paris
pentagonal, hexagonal, and whimsical faces, which had succeeded
each other at that hole without realizing the ideal of the
grotesque which their imaginations, excited by the orgy, had
constructed, nothing less was needed to win their suffrages than
the sublime grimace which had just dazzled the assembly. Master
Coppenole himself applauded, and Clopin Trouillefou, who had been
among the competitors (and God knows what intensity of ugliness
his visage could attain), confessed himself conquered: We will do
the same. We shall not try to give the reader an idea of that
tetrahedral nose, that horseshoe mouth; that little left eye
obstructed with a red, bushy, bristling eyebrow, while the right
eye disappeared entirely beneath an enormous wart; of those teeth
in disarray, broken here and there, like the embattled parapet of
a fortress; of that callous lip, upon which one of these teeth
encroached, like the tusk of an elephant; of that forked chin;
and above all, of the expression spread over the whole; of that
mixture of malice, amazement, and sadness. Let the reader dream
of this whole, if he can.
The acclamation was unanimous; people rushed towards the chapel.
They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But
it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest
pitch; the grimace was his face.
Or rather, his whole person was a grimace. A huge head, bristling
with red hair; between his shoulders an enormous hump, a
counterpart perceptible in front; a system of thighs and legs so
strangely astray that they could touch each other only at the
knees, and, viewed from the front, resembled the crescents of two
scythes joined by the handles; large feet, monstrous hands; and,
with all this deformity, an indescribable and redoubtable air of
vigor, agility, and courage,—strange exception to the eternal
rule which wills that force as well as beauty shall be the result
of harmony. Such was the pope whom the fools had just chosen for
themselves.
One would have pronounced him a giant who had been broken and
badly put together again.
When this species of cyclops appeared on the threshold of the
chapel, motionless, squat, and almost as broad as he was tall;
_squared_ on the _base_, as a great man says; with his doublet
half red, half violet, sown with silver bells, and, above all, in
the perfection of his ugliness, the populace recognized him on
the instant, and shouted with one voice,—
“’Tis Quasimodo, the bellringer! ’tis Quasimodo, the hunchback of
Notre-Dame! Quasimodo, the one-eyed! Quasimodo, the bandy-legged!
Noël! Noël!”
It will be seen that the poor fellow had a choice of surnames.
“Let the women with child beware!” shouted the scholars.
“Or those who wish to be,” resumed Joannes.
The women did, in fact, hide their faces.
“Oh! the horrible monkey!” said one of them.
“As wicked as he is ugly,” retorted another.
“He’s the devil,” added a third.
“I have the misfortune to live near Notre-Dame; I hear him
prowling round the eaves by night.”
“With the cats.”
“He’s always on our roofs.”
“He throws spells down our chimneys.”
“The other evening, he came and made a grimace at me through my
attic window. I thought that it was a man. Such a fright as I
had!”
“I’m sure that he goes to the witches’ sabbath. Once he left a
broom on my leads.”
“Oh! what a displeasing hunchback’s face!”
“Oh! what an ill-favored soul!”
“Whew!”
The men, on the contrary, were delighted and applauded.
Quasimodo, the object of the tumult, still stood on the threshold
of the chapel, sombre and grave, and allowed them to admire him.
One scholar (Robin Poussepain, I think), came and laughed in his
face, and too close. Quasimodo contented himself with taking him
by the girdle, and hurling him ten paces off amid the crowd; all
without uttering a word.
Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.
“Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness
that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope
at Rome, as well as at Paris.”
So saying, he placed his hand gayly on his shoulder. Quasimodo
did not stir. Coppenole went on,—
“You are a rogue with whom I have a fancy for carousing, were it
to cost me a new dozen of twelve livres of Tours. How does it
strike you?”
Quasimodo made no reply.
“Cross of God!” said the hosier, “are you deaf?”
He was, in truth, deaf.
Nevertheless, he began to grow impatient with Coppenole’s
behavior, and suddenly turned towards him with so formidable a
gnashing of teeth, that the Flemish giant recoiled, like a
bull-dog before a cat.
Then there was created around that strange personage, a circle of
terror and respect, whose radius was at least fifteen geometrical
feet. An old woman explained to Coppenole that Quasimodo was
deaf.
“Deaf!” said the hosier, with his great Flemish laugh. “Cross of
God! He’s a perfect pope!”
“Hé! I recognize him,” exclaimed Jehan, who had, at last,
descended from his capital, in order to see Quasimodo at closer
quarters, “he’s the bellringer of my brother, the archdeacon.
Good-day, Quasimodo!”
“What a devil of a man!” said Robin Poussepain still all bruised
with his fall. “He shows himself; he’s a hunchback. He walks;
he’s bandy-legged. He looks at you; he’s one-eyed. You speak to
him; he’s deaf. And what does this Polyphemus do with his
tongue?”
“He speaks when he chooses,” said the old woman; “he became deaf
through ringing the bells. He is not dumb.”
“That he lacks,” remarks Jehan.
“And he has one eye too many,” added Robin Poussepain.
“Not at all,” said Jehan wisely. “A one-eyed man is far less
complete than a blind man. He knows what he lacks.”
In the meantime, all the beggars, all the lackeys, all the
cutpurses, joined with the scholars, had gone in procession to
seek, in the cupboard of the law clerks’ company, the cardboard
tiara, and the derisive robe of the Pope of the Fools. Quasimodo
allowed them to array him in them without wincing, and with a
sort of proud docility. Then they made him seat himself on a
motley litter. Twelve officers of the fraternity of fools raised
him on their shoulders; and a sort of bitter and disdainful joy
lighted up the morose face of the cyclops, when he beheld beneath
his deformed feet all those heads of handsome, straight,
well-made men. Then the ragged and howling procession set out on
its march, according to custom, around the inner galleries of the
Courts, before making the circuit of the streets and squares.
CHAPTER VI. ESMERALDA.
We are delighted to be able to inform the reader, that during the
whole of this scene, Gringoire and his piece had stood firm. His
actors, spurred on by him, had not ceased to spout his comedy,
and he had not ceased to listen to it. He had made up his mind
about the tumult, and was determined to proceed to the end, not
giving up the hope of a return of attention on the part of the
public. This gleam of hope acquired fresh life, when he saw
Quasimodo, Coppenole, and the deafening escort of the pope of the
procession of fools quit the hall amid great uproar. The throng
rushed eagerly after them. “Good,” he said to himself, “there go
all the mischief-makers.” Unfortunately, all the mischief-makers
constituted the entire audience. In the twinkling of an eye, the
grand hall was empty.
To tell the truth, a few spectators still remained, some
scattered, others in groups around the pillars, women, old men,
or children, who had had enough of the uproar and tumult. Some
scholars were still perched astride of the window-sills, engaged
in gazing into the Place.
“Well,” thought Gringoire, “here are still as many as are
required to hear the end of my mystery. They are few in number,
but it is a choice audience, a lettered audience.”
An instant later, a symphony which had been intended to produce
the greatest effect on the arrival of the Virgin, was lacking.
Gringoire perceived that his music had been carried off by the
procession of the Pope of the Fools. “Skip it,” said he,
stoically.
He approached a group of _bourgeois_, who seemed to him to be
discussing his piece. This is the fragment of conversation which
he caught,—
“You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hôtel de Navarre, which belonged
to Monsieur de Nemours?”
“Yes, opposite the Chapelle de Braque.”
“Well, the treasury has just let it to Guillaume Alixandre,
historian, for six livres, eight sols, parisian, a year.”
“How rents are going up!”
“Come,” said Gringoire to himself, with a sigh, “the others are
listening.”
“Comrades,” suddenly shouted one of the young scamps from the
window, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda in the Place!”
This word produced a magical effect. Every one who was left in
the hall flew to the windows, climbing the walls in order to see,
and repeating, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda?” At the same time, a
great sound of applause was heard from without.
“What’s the meaning of this, of the Esmeralda?” said Gringoire,
wringing his hands in despair. “Ah, good heavens! it seems to be
the turn of the windows now.”
He returned towards the marble table, and saw that the
representation had been interrupted. It was precisely at the
instant when Jupiter should have appeared with his thunder. But
Jupiter was standing motionless at the foot of the stage.
“Michel Giborne!” cried the irritated poet, “what are you doing
there? Is that your part? Come up!”
“Alas!” said Jupiter, “a scholar has just seized the ladder.”
Gringoire looked. It was but too true. All communication between
his plot and its solution was intercepted.
“The rascal,” he murmured. “And why did he take that ladder?”
“In order to go and see the Esmeralda,” replied Jupiter
piteously. “He said, ‘Come, here’s a ladder that’s of no use!’
and he took it.”
This was the last blow. Gringoire received it with resignation.
“May the devil fly away with you!” he said to the comedian, “and
if I get my pay, you shall receive yours.”
Then he beat a retreat, with drooping head, but the last in the
field, like a general who has fought well.
And as he descended the winding stairs of the courts: “A fine
rabble of asses and dolts these Parisians!” he muttered between
his teeth; “they come to hear a mystery and don’t listen to it at
all! They are engrossed by every one, by Clopin Trouillefou, by
the cardinal, by Coppenole, by Quasimodo, by the devil! but by
Madame the Virgin Mary, not at all. If I had known, I’d have
given you Virgin Mary; you ninnies! And I! to come to see faces
and behold only backs! to be a poet, and to reap the success of
an apothecary! It is true that Homerus begged through the Greek