face was so lost in the abundance of her garments that she looked like a walking rag-bag,--"gentlemen, the thing is as true as it is true that my name is La Falourdel, and that I have lived for forty years on the Pont Saint-Michel, paying my rent, lord's dues, and quit-rents punctually; and the door is just opposite the house of Tassin-Caillart the dyer, which is on the side looking up stream; a poor old woman now, a pretty girl once, gentlemen. Some one said to me only a few days ago, 'La Falourdel, don't sit at your wheel and spin too much of an evening; the devil loves to comb old women's distaffs with his horn. It is very certain that the spectre monk who roamed about the Temple last year now haunts the City. La Falourdel, beware lest he knock at your door.' One evening I was spinning at my wheel; there was a knock at the door. I asked who was there. Some one swore roundly. I opened. Two men came in,--one in black, with a handsome officer. I could only see the eyes of the one in black,--two burning coals; all the rest was hat and cloak. This is what they said to me: 'The Saint Martha room.' That is my upstairs room, gentlemen,--my nicest one. They gave me a crown piece. I put the crown in my drawer, and I said, 'That shall be to buy tripe tomorrow at the Gloriette shambles.' We went up. When we got to the upper room, while my back was turned the black man disappeared. This startled me a little. The officer, who was as handsome as any great lord, went downstairs again with me. He left the house. By the time I had spun a quarter of a skein he was back with a lovely young girl,--a puppet who would have shone like the sun if her hair had been well dressed. She had with her a goat,--a big goat. I have forgotten now whether it was black or white. That bothered me. As for the girl, she was none of my business; but the goat! I don't like those animals; they have a beard and horns. They look like men. And then, they savor of sorcery. However, I said nothing. I had the crownpiece. That was right, my lord judge, wasn't it? I took the captain and the girl to the upper room, and I left them alone,--that is, with the goat. I went down and began to spin again. You must know that my house has a ground-floor and a floor above; it overlooks the river at the back, like all the rest of the houses on the bridge, and the window on the ground-floor and the one above both open upon the water. As I say, I was spinning. I don't know how I fell to thinking of the goblin monk, of whom the goat had reminded me; and then, that pretty girl was so queerly rigged out. All at once I heard a scream upstairs, and something fell on the floor, and the window opened. I ran to my window, which is just under it, and I saw a dark mass fall past me into the water. It was a phantom dressed like a priest. It was bright moonlight. I saw as plainly as possible. He swam away towards the City. Then, all in a tremble, I called the watch. Those gentlemen entered, and being somewhat merry, and not knowing what the matter was, they fell to beating me. But I soon explained things to them. We went upstairs, and what did we find? My poor room all stained with blood, the captain stretched out at full length with a dagger in his throat, the girl pretending to be dead, and the goat in a terrible fright. 'Well done!' said I; 'it will take me more than a fortnight to scrub up these boards. I shall have to scrape them; it will be a dreadful piece of work!' They carried off the officer,--poor young man!--and the girl, all disheveled and in disorder. But stay; the worst of all is that next day, when I went to get the crown to buy my tripe, I found a withered leaf in its place."
The old woman paused. A murmur of horror ran round the room.
"The phantom, the goat, and all that, savor of sorcery," said one of Gringoire's neighbors.
"So does that withered leaf!" added another.
"No doubt," continued a third, "the girl was a witch, who was in league with the goblin monk to plunder officers."
Gringoire himself was inclined to consider the whole story both terrible and probable.
"La Falourdel," said the president, majestically, "have you nothing more to tell the court?"
"No, my lord," replied the old woman, "except that in the report my house was called a dirty, rickety hut, which is an outrageous way to talk. The houses on the bridge are not much to look at, because there are so many people there; but all the same even butchers don't scorn to live there, and some of them are rich folks, and married to very neat, handsome women."
The magistrate who had reminded Gringoire of a crocodile now rose.
"Silence!" said he. "I beg you, gentlemen, not to lose sight of the fact that a dagger was found upon the prisoner. La Falourdel, did you bring that leaf into which the crownpiece which the evil spirit gave you was changed?"
"Yes, my lord," replied she; "I found it. Here it is."
An usher handed the dead leaf to the crocodile, who shook his head mournfully, and passed it to the president, who sent it on to the king's proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court; and in this way it went the round of the room.
"It is a birch-leaf," said Master Jacques Charmolue. This was a fresh proof of magic.
A councillor next took up the word.
"Witness, two men went upstairs together in your house. The black man,--whom you first saw disappear, and afterwards swim the Seine in a priest's gown,--and the officer. Which of the two gave you the money?"
The old woman thought for a moment, and said, "It was the officer."
A confused clamor ran through the crowd.
"Ah!" thought Gringoire, "that shakes my conviction."
However, Master Philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary to the king, interfered afresh.
"I must remind you, gentlemen, that in his deposition, written at his bedside, the murdered officer, while he declares that he had a vague idea at the instant the man in black accosted him that it might easily be the goblin monk, added that the phantom had urged him to keep his rendezvous with the prisoner; and upon his remarking that he had no money, gave him the crown, which the said officer paid away to La Falourdel. Therefore, the crown was a coin from hell."
This conclusive observation seemed to dispel all the doubts of Gringoire and the other skeptics in the audience.
"Gentlemen, you have the brief," added the king's advocate, sitting down; "you can consult the statement of Phoebus de Chateaupers."
At the sound of this name the prisoner rose; her head appeared above the crowd. The terrified Gringoire recognized Esmeralda.
She was pale; her hair, once so gracefully braided and spangled with sequins, fell about her in disorder; her lips were livid; her hollow eyes were horrible. Alas!
"Phoebus!" said she, wildly, "where is he? Oh, gentlemen, before you kill me, in pity tell me if he still lives!"
"Be silent, woman!" replied the president; "that does not con cern us."
"Oh, have mercy! Tell me if he is alive!" she repeated, clasping her beautiful but emaciated hands; and her chains rattled as she moved.
"Well," said the king's advocate, drily, "he is dying! Are you satisfied?"
The wretched girl fell back upon her seat, voiceless, tearless, white as a waxen image.
The president leaned towards a man standing at his feet, with a golden cap and a black gown, a chain about his neck, and a wand in his hand.
"Usher, bring in the other prisoner."
All eyes were turned upon a small door which opened, and to Gringoire's great dismay a pretty goat, with gilded horns and hoofs, appeared. The dainty creature paused a moment on the threshold, stretching her neck as if, perched on the point of a rock, she had a vast horizon before her. All at once she saw the gipsy girl, and leaping over the table and the head of a clerk with two bounds, she was at her knees; then she curled herself gracefully at the feet of her mistress, imploring a word or a caress; but the prisoner remained motionless, and even poor Djali could not win a look from her.
"Why, but--That is the ugly beast I told you about," said La Falourdel; "and I recognize the pair of them well enough!"
Jacques Charmolue interrupted her.
"If it please you, gentlemen, we will proceed to examine the goat."
Such was indeed the other prisoner. Nothing was simpler at that time than to bring a suit for witchcraft against an animal. Among other details, we find in the provost's accounts for 1466 a curious item of the costs of the trial of Gillet-Soulart and his sow, "executed for their demerits," at Corbeil. Everything is set down,--the cost of the pen in which the sow was imprisoned, the five hundred bundles of short fagots brought from the port of Morsant, the three pints of wine and the bread for the victim's last repast, fraternally shared by the executioner; even the eleven days' feeding and keep of the sow, at eight Paris pence each. Sometimes they went even beyond animals. The capitularies of Charlemagne and Louis the Debonair inflict severe penalties upon those fiery phantoms who take the liberty of appearing in mid-air.
Meantime the king's proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court cried aloud, "If the devil possessing this goat, and which has resisted every exorcism, persist in his evil deeds, if he terrify the court with them, we warn him that we shall be compelled to send him to the gibbet or the stake."
Gringoire was in a cold perspiration. Charmolue took from a table the gipsy girl's tambourine, and presenting it to the goat in a particular way, he asked the creature:
"What time is it?"
The goat looked at him with an intelligent eye, lifted her gilded hoof, and struck seven blows. It was indeed seven o'clock. A movement of terror ran through the crowd.
Gringoire could not restrain himself.
"She is lost!" he cried aloud; "you see that she doesn't know what she is doing."
"Silence among the people at the end of the hall!" said the usher, sharply.
Jacques Charmolue, by the aid of the same maneuvers with the tambourine, made the goat perform various other tricks as to the day of the month, the month of the year, etc., which the reader has already witnessed. And, by an optical illusion common to judicial debates, those same spectators who had perhaps more than once applauded the innocent pranks of Djali in the public streets, were terrified by them within the walls of the Palace of Justice. The goat was clearly the devil.
It was still worse when, the king's proxy having emptied out upon the floor a certain leather bag full of movable letters, which Djali wore about her neck, the goat selected with her foot the separate letters spelling out the fatal name "Phoebus." The spells to which the captain had fallen a victim seemed to be irresistibly demonstrated; and, in all eyes, the gipsy girl--that enchanting dancer who had so often dazzled the passers-by with her grace--was nothing but a horrible witch.
Moreover, she gave no sign of life; neither the pretty pranks of Djali, nor the threats of the magistrates, nor the muttered curses of the audience seemed to reach her ear.
In order to rouse her, an officer was forced to shake her most unmercifully, the president raising his voice solemnly as he said:--
"Girl, you are of the gipsy race, addicted to sorceries. You, with your accomplice, the bewitched goat involved in the charge, did, upon the night of the 29th of March last, murder and stab, in league with the powers of darkness, by the aid of charms and spells, a captain of the king's troops, one Phoebus de Chateaupers. Do you persist in denying this?"
"Horrible!" cried the young girl, hiding her face in her hands. "My Phoebus! oh, this is indeed hell!"
"Do you persist in your denial?" coldly asked the president.
"Certainly I deny it!" said she, in terrible accents; and she rose to her full height, her eyes flashing.
The president continued bluntly:--
"Then how do you explain the facts alleged against you?"
She answered in a broken voice,--
"I have told you already. I do not know. It was a priest,--a priest whom I do not know; an infernal priest who has long pursued me!"
"There it is," said the judge; "the goblin monk."
"Oh, my lords, have pity! I am only a poor girl."
"A gipsy," said the judge.
Master Jacques Charmolue said gently,--
"In view of the prisoner's painful obstinacy, I demand that she be put to the rack."
"Agreed," said the president.
The wretched girl shuddered. Still, she rose at the order of the halberdiers, and walked with quite firm step, preceded by Charmolue and the priests of the Bishop's Court, between two rows of halberds, towards a low door, which suddenly opened and closed behind her, making the unhappy Gringoire feel as if she had been devoured by some awful monster.
As she disappeared, a plaintive bleat was heard. It was the little goat mourning for her.
The hearing was over. A councillor remarked that the gentlemen were tired, and that it would be a long time for them to wait until the torture was over; and the president replied that a magistrate should be ever ready to sacrifice himself to his duty.
"What a disagreeable, tiresome jade," said an old judge, "to force us to send her to the rack when we have not supped!"
CHAPTER II
Continuation of the Crown Piece Changed to a Dry Leaf
After going up a few steps and down a few steps in corridors so dark that they were lighted with lamps at midday, Esmeralda, still surrounded by her dismal escort, was pushed by the sergeants of the Palace into a room of forbidding appearance. This room, round in form, occupied the ground-floor of one of those great towers which still rise above the layer of modern structures with which the new Paris has covered the old city. There were no windows in this vault, nor was there any opening save the low entrance closed by a huge iron door. Still, there was no lack of light; a furnace was built in the thickness of the wall; a vast fire had been kindled in it, which filled the vault with its red glow, and robbed a paltry candle, placed in a corner, of all its radiance. The iron grating which served to close the furnace was just now raised, only showing, at the mouth of the flaming chasm against the dark wall, the lower edge of its bars, like a row of sharp black teeth set at regular intervals, which made the furnace look like the mouth of one of those legendary dragons that spit forth fire. By the light which it cast, the prisoner saw, all around the room, terrible instruments whose use she did not understand. In the middle of the room was a leather mattress laid almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap with a buckle, attached to a copper ring held by a flat-nosed monster carved on the keystone of the vaulted ceiling. Pincers, nippers, and broad plowshares filled the interior of the furnace, and glowed in a confused white-hot heap upon the living coals. The blood-red light of the furnace illuminated in the entire room nothing but a mass of horrible objects.
This Tartarus was known as "the torture-chamber."
Upon the bed sat carelessly Pierrat Torterue, the sworn torturer. His assistants, two square-faced gnomes with leather aprons and linen breeches, were stirring the iron instruments upon the coals.
In vain the poor girl strove to summon all her courage; as she entered the room a feeling of terror overcame her.
The sergeants of the Bailiff of the Palace ranged themselves on one side, the priests of the Bishop's Court on the other. A clerk, pen, ink, and paper, and a table were in one corner.
Master Jacques Charmolue approached the girl with a very sweet smile, saying,--
"Do you still persist in your denial, my dear child?"
"Yes," replied she in a faint voice.
"In that case," resumed Charmolue, "it will be our very painful duty to question you more urgently than we could wish. Be kind enough to take your seat on that bed. Master Pierrat, make room for the young lady, and close the door."
Pierrat rose with a grunt.
"If I close the door," he muttered, "my fire will go out."
"Very well, my dear fellow," replied Charmolue; "then leave it open."
But Esmeralda still stood. That leather bed, upon which so many wretches had writhed in torment, alarmed her. Terror froze the marrow in her bones; she stood there, stupefied and bewildered. At a sign from Charmolue, the two assistants took hold of her and seated her upon the bed. They did not hurt her; but when they touched her, when the leather touched her, she felt all the blood in her body flow back to her heart. She cast a desperate look around the room. She seemed to see all those monstrous tools of torture, which were to the instruments of every sort which she had hitherto seen, what bats, spiders, and wood-lice are to birds and insects, moving and advancing towards her from every direction, to crawl over her and bite her and pinch her.
"Where is the doctor?" asked Charmolue.
"Here," replied a black gown which she had not noticed before.
She shivered.
"Young lady," resumed the caressing voice of the king's proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court, "for the third time, do you persist in denying those things of which you are accused?"
This time she could only nod her head. Her voice failed her.
"You persist?" said Jacques Charmolue. "Then I am extremely sorry, but I must perform the duty of my office."
"Mr. Proxy," said Pierrat, abruptly, "with what shall we begin?"
Charmolue hesitated a moment, with the doubtful face of a poet in search of a rhyme.
"With the buskin," said he at last.
The unfortunate girl felt herself so wholly forsaken by God and man, that her head fell upon her breast like a lifeless thing destitute of all strength.
The torturer and the doctor approached her together. At the same time the two assistants began to rummage in their hideous arsenal.
At the clink of that frightful heap of iron, the unhappy creature trembled like a dead frog when galvanism is applied to it. "Oh," she murmured in so low a tone that no one heard it, "oh, my Phoebus!" Then she relapsed into her former immobility and marble-like silence. The sight would have wrung any heart save the hearts of judges. She seemed some poor sinning soul questioned by Satan at the scarlet gates of hell. Could it be that this gentle, fair, and fragile creature, a poor grain of millet given over by human justice to be ground in the fearful mills of torture, was the miserable body upon which that frightful array of saws, wheels, and racks was to fasten,--the being whom the rough hands of executioners and pincers were to handle?
But the horny fingers of Pierrat Torterue's assistants had already brutally bared that charming leg and that tiny foot, which had so often amazed the by-standers with their grace and beauty in the streets of Paris.
"'Tis a pity!" growled the torturer, as he looked at the dainty and delicate limb.
Had the archdeacon been present,