Notre-Dame de Paris
the exception of Gisquette and Liénarde, who turned round from
time to time when Gringoire plucked them by the sleeve; with the
exception of the big, patient neighbor, no one listened, no one
looked at the poor, deserted morality full face. Gringoire saw
only profiles.
With what bitterness did he behold his whole erection of glory
and of poetry crumble away bit by bit! And to think that these
people had been upon the point of instituting a revolt against
the bailiff through impatience to hear his work! now that they
had it they did not care for it. This same representation which
had been begun amid so unanimous an acclamation! Eternal flood
and ebb of popular favor! To think that they had been on the
point of hanging the bailiff’s sergeant! What would he not have
given to be still at that hour of honey!
But the usher’s brutal monologue came to an end; every one had
arrived, and Gringoire breathed freely once more; the actors
continued bravely. But Master Coppenole, the hosier, must needs
rise of a sudden, and Gringoire was forced to listen to him
deliver, amid universal attention, the following abominable
harangue.
“Messieurs the _bourgeois_ and squires of Paris, I don’t know,
cross of God! what we are doing here. I certainly do see yonder
in the corner on that stage, some people who appear to be
fighting. I don’t know whether that is what you call a “mystery,”
but it is not amusing; they quarrel with their tongues and
nothing more. I have been waiting for the first blow this quarter
of an hour; nothing comes; they are cowards who only scratch each
other with insults. You ought to send for the fighters of London
or Rotterdam; and, I can tell you! you would have had blows of
the fist that could be heard in the Place; but these men excite
our pity. They ought at least, to give us a moorish dance, or
some other mummer! That is not what was told me; I was promised a
feast of fools, with the election of a pope. We have our pope of
fools at Ghent also; we’re not behindhand in that, cross of God!
But this is the way we manage it; we collect a crowd like this
one here, then each person in turn passes his head through a
hole, and makes a grimace at the rest; time one who makes the
ugliest, is elected pope by general acclamation; that’s the way
it is. It is very diverting. Would you like to make your pope
after the fashion of my country? At all events, it will be less
wearisome than to listen to chatterers. If they wish to come and
make their grimaces through the hole, they can join the game.
What say you, Messieurs les _bourgeois_? You have here enough
grotesque specimens of both sexes, to allow of laughing in
Flemish fashion, and there are enough of us ugly in countenance
to hope for a fine grinning match.”
Gringoire would have liked to retort; stupefaction, rage,
indignation, deprived him of words. Moreover, the suggestion of
the popular hosier was received with such enthusiasm by these
_bourgeois_ who were flattered at being called “squires,” that
all resistance was useless. There was nothing to be done but to
allow one’s self to drift with the torrent. Gringoire hid his
face between his two hands, not being so fortunate as to have a
mantle with which to veil his head, like Agamemnon of Timantis.
CHAPTER V. QUASIMODO.
In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute Coppenole’s
idea. _Bourgeois_, scholars and law clerks all set to work. The
little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for
the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose
window above the door, left free a circle of stone through which
it was agreed that the competitors should thrust their heads. In
order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple
of hogsheads, which had been produced from I know not where, and
perched one upon the other, after a fashion. It was settled that
each candidate, man or woman (for it was possible to choose a
female pope), should, for the sake of leaving the impression of
his grimace fresh and complete, cover his face and remain
concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In
less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors,
upon whom the door was then closed.
Coppenole, from his post, ordered all, directed all, arranged
all. During the uproar, the cardinal, no less abashed than
Gringoire, had retired with all his suite, under the pretext of
business and vespers, without the crowd which his arrival had so
deeply stirred being in the least moved by his departure.
Guillaume Rym was the only one who noticed his eminence’s
discomfiture. The attention of the populace, like the sun,
pursued its revolution; having set out from one end of the hall,
and halted for a space in the middle, it had now reached the
other end. The marble table, the brocaded gallery had each had
their day; it was now the turn of the chapel of Louis XI.
Henceforth, the field was open to all folly. There was no one
there now, but the Flemings and the rabble.
The grimaces began. The first face which appeared at the
aperture, with eyelids turned up to the reds, a mouth open like a
maw, and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire,
evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would
have taken all these louts for gods. Nevertheless, the grand hall
was anything but Olympus, and Gringoire’s poor Jupiter knew it
better than any one else. A second and third grimace followed,
then another and another; and the laughter and transports of
delight went on increasing. There was in this spectacle, a
peculiar power of intoxication and fascination, of which it would
be difficult to convey to the reader of our day and our salons
any idea.
Let the reader picture to himself a series of visages presenting
successively all geometrical forms, from the triangle to the
trapezium, from the cone to the polyhedron; all human
expressions, from wrath to lewdness; all ages, from the wrinkles
of the new-born babe to the wrinkles of the aged and dying; all
religious phantasmagories, from Faun to Beelzebub; all animal
profiles, from the maw to the beak, from the jowl to the muzzle.
Let the reader imagine all these grotesque figures of the Pont
Neuf, those nightmares petrified beneath the hand of Germain
Pilon, assuming life and breath, and coming in turn to stare you
in the face with burning eyes; all the masks of the Carnival of
Venice passing in succession before your glass,—in a word, a
human kaleidoscope.
The orgy grew more and more Flemish. Teniers could have given but
a very imperfect idea of it. Let the reader picture to himself in
bacchanal form, Salvator Rosa’s battle. There were no longer
either scholars or ambassadors or _bourgeois_ or men or women;
there was no longer any Clopin Trouillefou, nor Gilles Lecornu,
nor Marie Quatrelivres, nor Robin Poussepain. All was universal
license. The grand hall was no longer anything but a vast furnace
of effrontry and joviality, where every mouth was a cry, every
individual a posture; everything shouted and howled. The strange
visages which came, in turn, to gnash their teeth in the rose
window, were like so many brands cast into the brazier; and from
the whole of this effervescing crowd, there escaped, as from a
furnace, a sharp, piercing, stinging noise, hissing like the
wings of a gnat.
“Ho hé! curse it!”
“Just look at that face!”
“It’s not good for anything.”
“Guillemette Maugerepuis, just look at that bull’s muzzle; it
only lacks the horns. It can’t be your husband.”
“Another!”
“Belly of the pope! what sort of a grimace is that?”
“Holà hé! that’s cheating. One must show only one’s face.”
“That damned Perrette Callebotte! she’s capable of that!”
“Good! Good!”
“I’m stifling!”
“There’s a fellow whose ears won’t go through!” Etc., etc.
But we must do justice to our friend Jehan. In the midst of this
witches’ sabbath, he was still to be seen on the top of his
pillar, like the cabin-boy on the topmast. He floundered about
with incredible fury. His mouth was wide open, and from it there
escaped a cry which no one heard, not that it was covered by the
general clamor, great as that was but because it attained, no
doubt, the limit of perceptible sharp sounds, the thousand
vibrations of Sauveur, or the eight thousand of Biot.
As for Gringoire, the first moment of depression having passed,
he had regained his composure. He had hardened himself against
adversity.—“Continue!” he had said for the third time, to his
comedians, speaking machines; then as he was marching with great
strides in front of the marble table, a fancy seized him to go
and appear in his turn at the aperture of the chapel, were it
only for the pleasure of making a grimace at that ungrateful
populace.—“But no, that would not be worthy of us; no, vengeance!
let us combat until the end,” he repeated to himself; “the power
of poetry over people is great; I will bring them back. We shall
see which will carry the day, grimaces or polite literature.”
Alas! he had been left the sole spectator of his piece. It was
far worse than it had been a little while before. He no longer
beheld anything but backs.
I am mistaken. The big, patient man, whom he had already
consulted in a critical moment, had remained with his face turned
towards the stage. As for Gisquette and Liénarde, they had
deserted him long ago.
Gringoire was touched to the heart by the fidelity of his only
spectator. He approached him and addressed him, shaking his arm
slightly; for the good man was leaning on the balustrade and
dozing a little.
“Monsieur,” said Gringoire, “I thank you!”
“Monsieur,” replied the big man with a yawn, “for what?”
“I see what wearies you,” resumed the poet; “’tis all this noise
which prevents your hearing comfortably. But be at ease! your
name shall descend to posterity! Your name, if you please?”
“Renauld Chateau, guardian of the seals of the Châtelet of Paris,
at your service.”
“Monsieur, you are the only representative of the muses here,”
said Gringoire.
“You are too kind, sir,” said the guardian of the seals at the
Châtelet.
“You are the only one,” resumed Gringoire, “who has listened to
the piece decorously. What do you think of it?”
“He! he!” replied the fat magistrate, half aroused, “it’s
tolerably jolly, that’s a fact.”
Gringoire was forced to content himself with this eulogy; for a
thunder of applause, mingled with a prodigious acclamation, cut
their conversation short. The Pope of the Fools had been elected.
“Noël! Noël! Noël!”[6] shouted the people on all sides. That was,
in fact, a marvellous grimace which was beaming at that moment
through the aperture in the rose window. After all the