On the following morning, she perceived on awaking, that she hadbeen asleep. This singular thing astonished her. She had been so longunaccustomed to sleep! A joyous ray of the rising sun entered throughher window and touched her face. At the same time with the sun, shebeheld at that window an object which frightened her, the unfortunateface of Quasimodo. She involuntarily closed her eyes again, but in vain;she fancied that she still saw through the rosy lids that gnome's mask,one-eyed and gap-toothed. Then, while she still kept her eyes closed,she heard a rough voice saying, very gently,--
"Be not afraid. I am your friend. I came to watch you sleep. It does nothurt you if I come to see you sleep, does it? What difference does itmake to you if I am here when your eyes are closed! Now I am going.Stay, I have placed myself behind the wall. You can open your eyesagain."
There was something more plaintive than these words, and that was theaccent in which they were uttered. The gypsy, much touched, openedher eyes. He was, in fact, no longer at the window. She approached theopening, and beheld the poor hunchback crouching in an angle of thewall, in a sad and resigned attitude. She made an effort to surmount therepugnance with which he inspired her. "Come," she said to him gently.From the movement of the gypsy's lips, Quasimodo thought that shewas driving him away; then he rose and retired limping, slowly, withdrooping head, without even daring to raise to the young girl his gazefull of despair. "Do come," she cried, but he continued to retreat. Thenshe darted from her cell, ran to him, and grasped his arm. On feelingher touch him, Quasimodo trembled in every limb. He raised his supplianteye, and seeing that she was leading him back to her quarters, his wholeface beamed with joy and tenderness. She tried to make him enter thecell; but he persisted in remaining on the threshold. "No, no," said he;"the owl enters not the nest of the lark."
Then she crouched down gracefully on her couch, with her goat asleep ather feet. Both remained motionless for several moments, consideringin silence, she so much grace, he so much ugliness. Every moment shediscovered some fresh deformity in Quasimodo. Her glance travelled fromhis knock knees to his humped back, from his humped back to his onlyeye. She could not comprehend the existence of a being so awkwardlyfashioned. Yet there was so much sadness and so much gentleness spreadover all this, that she began to become reconciled to it.
He was the first to break the silence. "So you were telling me toreturn?"
She made an affirmative sign of the head, and said, "Yes."
He understood the motion of the head. "Alas!" he said, as thoughhesitating whether to finish, "I am--I am deaf."
"Poor man!" exclaimed the Bohemian, with an expression of kindly pity.
He began to smile sadly.
"You think that that was all that I lacked, do you not? Yes, I amdeaf, that is the way I am made. 'Tis horrible, is it not? You are sobeautiful!"
There lay in the accents of the wretched man so profound a consciousnessof his misery, that she had not the strength to say a word. Besides, hewould not have heard her. He went on,--
"Never have I seen my ugliness as at the present moment. When I comparemyself to you, I feel a very great pity for myself, poor unhappy monsterthat I am! Tell me, I must look to you like a beast. You, you are aray of sunshine, a drop of dew, the song of a bird! I am somethingfrightful, neither man nor animal, I know not what, harder, moretrampled under foot, and more unshapely than a pebble stone!"
Then he began to laugh, and that laugh was the most heartbreaking thingin the world. He continued,--
"Yes, I am deaf; but you shall talk to me by gestures, by signs. I havea master who talks with me in that way. And then, I shall very soon knowyour wish from the movement of your lips, from your look."
"Well!" she interposed with a smile, "tell me why you saved me."
He watched her attentively while she was speaking.
"I understand," he replied. "You ask me why I saved you. You haveforgotten a wretch who tried to abduct you one night, a wretch to whomyou rendered succor on the following day on their infamous pillory. Adrop of water and a little pity,--that is more than I can repay with mylife. You have forgotten that wretch; but he remembers it."
She listened to him with profound tenderness. A tear swam in the eye ofthe bellringer, but did not fall. He seemed to make it a sort of pointof honor to retain it.
"Listen," he resumed, when he was no longer afraid that the tear wouldescape; "our towers here are very high, a man who should fall from themwould be dead before touching the pavement; when it shall please youto have me fall, you will not have to utter even a word, a glance willsuffice."
Then he rose. Unhappy as was the Bohemian, this eccentric being stillaroused some compassion in her. She made him a sign to remain.
"No, no," said he; "I must not remain too long. I am not at my ease. Itis out of pity that you do not turn away your eyes. I shall go to someplace where I can see you without your seeing me: it will be better so."
He drew from his pocket a little metal whistle.
"Here," said he, "when you have need of me, when you wish me to come,when you will not feel too ranch horror at the sight of me, use thiswhistle. I can hear this sound."
He laid the whistle on the floor and fled.
CHAPTER IV. EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.