La Esmeralda was sleeping at the moment when the outcasts assailed thechurch.
Soon the ever-increasing uproar around the edifice, and the uneasybleating of her goat which had been awakened, had roused her fromher slumbers. She had sat up, she had listened, she had looked; then,terrified by the light and noise, she had rushed from her cell to see.The aspect of the Place, the vision which was moving in it, the disorderof that nocturnal assault, that hideous crowd, leaping like a cloud offrogs, half seen in the gloom, the croaking of that hoarse multitude,those few red torches running and crossing each other in the darknesslike the meteors which streak the misty surfaces of marshes, this wholescene produced upon her the effect of a mysterious battle between thephantoms of the witches' sabbath and the stone monsters of the church.Imbued from her very infancy with the superstitions of the Bohemiantribe, her first thought was that she had caught the strange beingspeculiar to the night, in their deeds of witchcraft. Then she ran interror to cower in her cell, asking of her pallet some less terriblenightmare.
But little by little the first vapors of terror had been dissipated;from the constantly increasing noise, and from many other signs ofreality, she felt herself besieged not by spectres, but by human beings.Then her fear, though it did not increase, changed its character. Shehad dreamed of the possibility of a popular mutiny to tear her from herasylum. The idea of once more recovering life, hope, Phoebus, who wasever present in her future, the extreme helplessness of her condition,flight cut off, no support, her abandonment, her isolation,--thesethoughts and a thousand others overwhelmed her. She fell upon her knees,with her head on her bed, her hands clasped over her head, full ofanxiety and tremors, and, although a gypsy, an idolater, and a pagan,she began to entreat with sobs, mercy from the good Christian God, andto pray to our Lady, her hostess. For even if one believes in nothing,there are moments in life when one is always of the religion of thetemple which is nearest at hand.
She remained thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling in truth,more than praying, chilled by the ever-closer breath of that furiousmultitude, understanding nothing of this outburst, ignorant of what wasbeing plotted, what was being done, what they wanted, but foreseeing aterrible issue.
In the midst of this anguish, she heard some one walking near her. Sheturned round. Two men, one of whom carried a lantern, had just enteredher cell. She uttered a feeble cry.
"Fear nothing," said a voice which was not unknown to her, "it is I."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Pierre Gringoire."
This name reassured her. She raised her eyes once more, and recognizedthe poet in very fact. But there stood beside him a black figure veiledfrom head to foot, which struck her by its silence.
"Oh!" continued Gringoire in a tone of reproach, "Djali recognized mebefore you!"
The little goat had not, in fact, waited for Gringoire to announce hisname. No sooner had he entered than it rubbed itself gently against hisknees, covering the poet with caresses and with white hairs, for it wasshedding its hair. Gringoire returned the caresses.
"Who is this with you?" said the gypsy, in a low voice.
"Be at ease," replied Gringoire. "'Tis one of my friends." Then thephilosopher setting his lantern on the ground, crouched upon the stones,and exclaimed enthusiastically, as he pressed Djali in his arms,--
"Oh! 'tis a graceful beast, more considerable no doubt, for it'sneatness than for its size, but ingenious, subtle, and lettered as agrammarian! Let us see, my Djali, hast thou forgotten any of thy prettytricks? How does Master Jacques Charmolue?..."
The man in black did not allow him to finish. He approached Gringoireand shook him roughly by the shoulder.
Gringoire rose.
"'Tis true," said he: "I forgot that we are in haste. But that is noreason master, for getting furious with people in this manner. My dearand lovely child, your life is in danger, and Djali's also. They wantto hang you again. We are your friends, and we have come to save you.Follow us."
"Is it true?" she exclaimed in dismay.
"Yes, perfectly true. Come quickly!"
"I am willing," she stammered. "But why does not your friend speak?"
"Ah!" said Gringoire, "'tis because his father and mother were fantasticpeople who made him of a taciturn temperament."
She was obliged to content herself with this explanation. Gringoire tookher by the hand; his companion picked up the lantern and walked on infront. Fear stunned the young girl. She allowed herself to be led away.The goat followed them, frisking, so joyous at seeing Gringoire againthat it made him stumble every moment by thrusting its horns between hislegs.
"Such is life," said the philosopher, every time that he camenear falling down; "'tis often our best friends who cause us to beoverthrown."
They rapidly descended the staircase of the towers, crossed the church,full of shadows and solitude, and all reverberating with uproar, whichformed a frightful contrast, and emerged into the courtyard of thecloister by the red door. The cloister was deserted; the canons hadfled to the bishop's palace in order to pray together; the courtyardwas empty, a few frightened lackeys were crouching in dark corners. Theydirected their steps towards the door which opened from this court uponthe Terrain. The man in black opened it with a key which he had abouthim. Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of landenclosed by walls on the side of the City and belonging to the chapterof Notre-Dame, which terminated the island on the east, behind thechurch. They found this enclosure perfectly deserted. There was hereless tumult in the air. The roar of the outcasts' assault reached themmore confusedly and less clamorously. The fresh breeze which follows thecurrent of a stream, rustled the leaves of the only tree planted on thepoint of the Terrain, with a noise that was already perceptible. Butthey were still very close to danger. The nearest edifices to them werethe bishop's palace and the church. It was plainly evident that therewas great internal commotion in the bishop's palace. Its shadowy masswas all furrowed with lights which flitted from window to window; as,when one has just burned paper, there remains a sombre edifice of ashesin which bright sparks run a thousand eccentric courses. Beside them,the enormous towers of Notre-Dame, thus viewed from behind, with thelong nave above which they rise cut out in black against the red andvast light which filled the Parvis, resembled two gigantic andirons ofsome cyclopean fire-grate.
What was to be seen of Paris on all sides wavered before the eye ina gloom mingled with light. Rembrandt has such backgrounds to hispictures.
The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the Terrain.There, at the very brink of the water, stood the wormeaten remains of afence of posts latticed with laths, whereon a low vine spread out afew thin branches like the fingers of an outspread hand. Behind, in theshadow cast by this trellis, a little boat lay concealed. The man madea sign to Gringoire and his companion to enter. The goat followed them.The man was the last to step in. Then he cut the boat's moorings, pushedit from the shore with a long boat-hook, and, seizing two oars, seatedhimself in the bow, rowing with all his might towards midstream. TheSeine is very rapid at this point, and he had a good deal of trouble inleaving the point of the island.
Gringoire's first care on entering the boat was to place the goat onhis knees. He took a position in the stern; and the young girl, whom thestranger inspired with an indefinable uneasiness, seated herself closeto the poet.
When our philosopher felt the boat sway, he clapped his hands and kissedDjali between the horns.
"Oh!" said he, "now we are safe, all four of us."
He added with the air of a profound thinker, "One is indebtedsometimes to fortune, sometimes to ruse, for the happy issue of greatenterprises."
The boat made its way slowly towards the right shore. The young girlwatched the unknown man with secret terror. He had carefully turned offthe light of his dark lantern. A glimpse could be caught of him in theobscurity, in the bow of the boat, like a spectre. His cowl, which wasstill lowered, formed a sort of mask; and every time that
he spread hisarms, upon which hung large black sleeves, as he rowed, one would havesaid they were two huge bat's wings. Moreover, he had not yet uttered aword or breathed a syllable. No other noise was heard in the boat thanthe splashing of the oars, mingled with the rippling of the water alongher sides.
"On my soul!" exclaimed Gringoire suddenly, "we are as cheerful andjoyous as young owls! We preserve the silence of Pythagoreans or fishes!_Pasque-Dieu_! my friends, I should greatly like to have some one speakto me. The human voice is music to the human ear. 'Tis not I whosay that, but Didymus of Alexandria, and they are illustrious words.Assuredly, Didymus of Alexandria is no mediocre philosopher.--One word,my lovely child! say but one word to me, I entreat you. By the way, youhad a droll and peculiar little pout; do you still make it? Do youknow, my dear, that parliament hath full jurisdiction over all places ofasylum, and that you were running a great risk in your little chamber atNotre-Dame? Alas! the little bird trochylus maketh its nest in the jawsof the crocodile.--Master, here is the moon re-appearing. If onlythey do not perceive us. We are doing a laudable thing in savingmademoiselle, and yet we should be hung by order of the king if we werecaught. Alas! human actions are taken by two handles. That is brandedwith disgrace in one which is crowned in another. He admires Cicero whoblames Catiline. Is it not so, master? What say you to thisphilosophy? I possess philosophy by instinct, by nature, _ut apesgeometriam_.--Come! no one answers me. What unpleasant moods you two arein! I must do all the talking alone. That is what we call a monologuein tragedy.--_Pasque-Dieu_! I must inform you that I have just seenthe king, Louis XI., and that I have caught this oath fromhim,--_Pasque-Dieu_! They are still making a hearty howl in thecity.--'Tis a villanous, malicious old king. He is all swathed in furs.He still owes me the money for my epithalamium, and he came within anick of hanging me this evening, which would have been very inconvenientto me.--He is niggardly towards men of merit. He ought to read the fourbooks of Salvien of Cologne, _Adversits Avaritiam_. In truth! 'Tis apaltry king in his ways with men of letters, and one who commits verybarbarous cruelties. He is a sponge, to soak money raised from thepeople. His saving is like the spleen which swelleth with the leannessof all the other members. Hence complaints against the hardness of thetimes become murmurs against the prince. Under this gentle and pioussire, the gallows crack with the hung, the blocks rot with blood, theprisons burst like over full bellies. This king hath one hand whichgrasps, and one which hangs. He is the procurator of Dame Tax andMonsieur Gibbet. The great are despoiled of their dignities, andthe little incessantly overwhelmed with fresh oppressions. He is anexorbitant prince. I love not this monarch. And you, master?"
The man in black let the garrulous poet chatter on. He continued tostruggle against the violent and narrow current, which separates theprow of the City and the stem of the island of Notre-Dame, which we callto-day the Isle St. Louis.
"By the way, master!" continued Gringoire suddenly. "At the momentwhen we arrived on the Parvis, through the enraged outcasts, did yourreverence observe that poor little devil whose skull your deaf man wasjust cracking on the railing of the gallery of the kings? I am nearsighted and I could not recognize him. Do you know who he could be?"
The stranger answered not a word. But he suddenly ceased rowing,his arms fell as though broken, his head sank on his breast, and laEsmeralda heard him sigh convulsively. She shuddered. She had heard suchsighs before.
The boat, abandoned to itself, floated for several minutes with thestream. But the man in black finally recovered himself, seized the oarsonce more and began to row against the current. He doubled the point ofthe Isle of Notre Dame, and made for the landing-place of the Port anFoin.
"Ah!" said Gringoire, "yonder is the Barbeau mansion.--Stay, master,look: that group of black roofs which make such singular angles yonder,above that heap of black, fibrous grimy, dirty clouds, where the moon iscompletely crushed and spread out like the yolk of an egg whose shellis broken.--'Tis a fine mansion. There is a chapel crowned with a smallvault full of very well carved enrichments. Above, you can see the belltower, very delicately pierced. There is also a pleasant garden, whichconsists of a pond, an aviary, an echo, a mall, a labyrinth, a housefor wild beasts, and a quantity of leafy alleys very agreeable to Venus.There is also a rascal of a tree which is called 'the lewd,' because itfavored the pleasures of a famous princess and a constable of France,who was a gallant and a wit.--Alas! we poor philosophers are to aconstable as a plot of cabbages or a radish bed to the garden of theLouvre. What matters it, after all? human life, for the great as wellas for us, is a mixture of good and evil. Pain is always by the sideof joy, the spondee by the dactyl.--Master, I must relate to you thehistory of the Barbeau mansion. It ends in tragic fashion. It was in1319, in the reign of Philippe V., the longest reign of the kings ofFrance. The moral of the story is that the temptations of the flesh arepernicious and malignant. Let us not rest our glance too long on ourneighbor's wife, however gratified our senses may be by her beauty.Fornication is a very libertine thought. Adultery is a prying into thepleasures of others--Ohe! the noise yonder is redoubling!"
The tumult around Notre-Dame was, in fact, increasing. They listened.Cries of victory were heard with tolerable distinctness. All at once, ahundred torches, the light of which glittered upon the helmets of menat arms, spread over the church at all heights, on the towers, on thegalleries, on the flying buttresses. These torches seemed to be insearch of something; and soon distant clamors reached the fugitivesdistinctly:--"The gypsy! the sorceress! death to the gypsy!"
The unhappy girl dropped her head upon her hands, and the unknown beganto row furiously towards the shore. Meanwhile our philosopher reflected.He clasped the goat in his arms, and gently drew away from the gypsy,who pressed closer and closer to him, as though to the only asylum whichremained to her.
It is certain that Gringoire was enduring cruel perplexity. He wasthinking that the goat also, "according to existing law," would be hungif recaptured; which would be a great pity, poor Djali! that he had thustwo condemned creatures attached to him; that his companion asked nobetter than to take charge of the gypsy. A violent combat began betweenhis thoughts, in which, like the Jupiter of the Iliad, he weighed inturn the gypsy and the goat; and he looked at them alternately with eyesmoist with tears, saying between his teeth:
"But I cannot save you both!"
A shock informed them that the boat had reached the land at last. Theuproar still filled the city. The unknown rose, approached the gypsy,and endeavored to take her arm to assist her to alight. She repulsed himand clung to the sleeve of Gringoire, who, in his turn, absorbed in thegoat, almost repulsed her. Then she sprang alone from the boat. She wasso troubled that she did not know what she did or whither she was going.Thus she remained for a moment, stunned, watching the water flow past;when she gradually returned to her senses, she found herself aloneon the wharf with the unknown. It appears that Gringoire had takenadvantage of the moment of debarcation to slip away with the goat intothe block of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l'Eau.
The poor gypsy shivered when she beheld herself alone with this man. Shetried to speak, to cry out, to call Gringoire; her tongue was dumbin her mouth, and no sound left her lips. All at once she feltthe stranger's hand on hers. It was a strong, cold hand. Her teethchattered, she turned paler than the ray of moonlight which illuminatedher. The man spoke not a word. He began to ascend towards the Place deGreve, holding her by the hand.
At that moment, she had a vague feeling that destiny is an irresistibleforce. She had no more resistance left in her, she allowed herself to bedragged along, running while he walked. At this spot the quay ascended.But it seemed to her as though she were descending a slope.
She gazed about her on all sides. Not a single passer-by. The quay wasabsolutely deserted. She heard no sound, she felt no people moving savein the tumultuous and glowing city, from which she was separated only byan arm of the Seine, and whence her name reached her, mingled with criesof "Death!" The rest of Paris was spread around
her in great blocks ofshadows.
Meanwhile, the stranger continued to drag her along with the samesilence and the same rapidity. She had no recollection of any of theplaces where she was walking. As she passed before a lighted window, shemade an effort, drew up suddenly, and cried out, "Help!"
The bourgeois who was standing at the window opened it, appeared therein his shirt with his lamp, stared at the quay with a stupid air,uttered some words which she did not understand, and closed his shutteragain. It was her last gleam of hope extinguished.
The man in black did not utter a syllable; he held her firmly, and setout again at a quicker pace. She no longer resisted, but followed him,completely broken.
From time to time she called together a little strength, and said, in avoice broken by the unevenness of the pavement and the breathlessness oftheir flight, "Who are you? Who are you?" He made no reply.
They arrived thus, still keeping along the quay, at a tolerably spacioussquare. It was the Greve. In the middle, a sort of black, erect crosswas visible; it was the gallows. She recognized all this, and saw whereshe was.
The man halted, turned towards her and raised his cowl.
"Oh!" she stammered, almost petrified, "I knew well that it was heagain!"
It was the priest. He looked like the ghost of himself; that is aneffect of the moonlight, it seems as though one beheld only the spectresof things in that light.
"Listen!" he said to her; and she shuddered at the sound of that fatalvoice which she had not heard for a long time. He continued speakingwith those brief and panting jerks, which betoken deep internalconvulsions. "Listen! we are here. I am going to speak to you. This isthe Greve. This is an extreme point. Destiny gives us to one another. Iam going to decide as to your life; you will decide as to my soul. Hereis a place, here is a night beyond which one sees nothing. Then listento me. I am going to tell you...In the first place, speak not to meof your Phoebus. (As he spoke thus he paced to and fro, like a man whocannot remain in one place, and dragged her after him.) Do not speak tome of him. Do you see? If you utter that name, I know not what I shalldo, but it will be terrible."
Then, like a body which recovers its centre of gravity, he becamemotionless once more, but his words betrayed no less agitation. Hisvoice grew lower and lower.
"Do not turn your head aside thus. Listen to me. It is a serious matter.In the first place, here is what has happened.--All this will not belaughed at. I swear it to you.--What was I saying? Remind me! Oh!--Thereis a decree of Parliament which gives you back to the scaffold. I havejust rescued you from their hands. But they are pursuing you. Look!"
He extended his arm toward the City. The search seemed, in fact, tobe still in progress there. The uproar drew nearer; the tower of thelieutenant's house, situated opposite the Greve, was full of clamorsand light, and soldiers could be seen running on the opposite quay withtorches and these cries, "The gypsy! Where is the gypsy! Death! Death!"
"You see that they are in pursuit of you, and that I am not lying toyou. I love you.--Do not open your mouth; refrain from speaking to merather, if it be only to tell me that you hate me. I have made up mymind not to hear that again.--I have just saved you.--Let me finishfirst. I can save you wholly. I have prepared everything. It is yours atwill. If you wish, I can do it."
He broke off violently. "No, that is not what I should say!"
As he went with hurried step and made her hurry also, for he did notrelease her, he walked straight to the gallows, and pointed to it withhis finger,--
"Choose between us two," he said, coldly.
She tore herself from his hands and fell at the foot of the gibbet,embracing that funereal support, then she half turned her beautifulhead, and looked at the priest over her shoulder. One would have saidthat she was a Holy Virgin at the foot of the cross. The priest remainedmotionless, his finger still raised toward the gibbet, preserving hisattitude like a statue. At length the gypsy said to him,--
"It causes me less horror than you do."
Then he allowed his arm to sink slowly, and gazed at the pavement inprofound dejection.
"If these stones could speak," he murmured, "yes, they would say that a* very unhappy man stands here."
He went on. The young girl, kneeling before the gallows, enveloped inher long flowing hair, let him speak on without interruption. He now hada gentle and plaintive accent which contrasted sadly with the haughtyharshness of his features.
"I love you. Oh! how true that is! So nothing comes of that fire whichburns my heart! Alas! young girl, night and day--yes, night and day Itell you,--it is torture. Oh! I suffer too much, my poor child. 'Tis athing deserving of compassion, I assure you. You see that I speak gentlyto you. I really wish that you should no longer cherish this horrorof me.--After all, if a man loves a woman, 'tis not his fault!--Oh, myGod!--What! So you will never pardon me? You will always hate me? All isover then. It is that which renders me evil, do you see? and horribleto myself.--You will not even look at me! You are thinking of somethingelse, perchance, while I stand here and talk to you, shuddering on thebrink of eternity for both of us! Above all things, do not speak to meof the officer!--I would cast myself at your knees, I would kiss notyour feet, but the earth which is under your feet; I would sob likea child, I would tear from my breast not words, but my very heart andvitals, to tell you that I love you;--all would be useless, all!--Andyet you have nothing in your heart but what is tender and merciful.You are radiant with the most beautiful mildness; you are wholly sweet,good, pitiful, and charming. Alas! You cherish no ill will for any onebut me alone! Oh! what a fatality!"
He hid his face in his hands. The young girl heard him weeping. It wasfor the first time. Thus erect and shaken by sobs, he was moremiserable and more suppliant than when on his knees. He wept thus for aconsiderable time.
"Come!" he said, these first tears passed, "I have no more words. I had,however, thought well as to what you would say. Now I tremble and shiverand break down at the decisive moment, I feel conscious of somethingsupreme enveloping us, and I stammer. Oh! I shall fall upon the pavementif you do not take pity on me, pity on yourself. Do not condemn us both.If you only knew how much I love you! What a heart is mine! Oh! whatdesertion of all virtue! What desperate abandonment of myself! A doctor,I mock at science; a gentleman, I tarnish my own name; a priest, I makeof the missal a pillow of sensuality, I spit in the face of my God! allthis for thee, enchantress! to be more worthy of thy hell! And you willnot have the apostate! Oh! let me tell you all! more still, somethingmore horrible, oh! Yet more horrible!...."
As he uttered these last words, his air became utterly distracted. Hewas silent for a moment, and resumed, as though speaking to himself, andin a strong voice,--
"Cain, what hast thou done with thy brother?"
There was another silence, and he went on--
"What have I done with him, Lord? I received him, I reared him, Inourished him, I loved him, I idolized him, and I have slain him! Yes,Lord, they have just dashed his head before my eyes on the stone ofthine house, and it is because of me, because of this woman, because ofher."
His eye was wild. His voice grew ever weaker; he repeated many times,yet, mechanically, at tolerably long intervals, like a bell prolongingits last vibration: "Because of her.--Because of her."
Then his tongue no longer articulated any perceptible sound; buthis lips still moved. All at once he sank together, like somethingcrumbling, and lay motionless on the earth, with his head on his knees.
A touch from the young girl, as she drew her foot from under him,brought him to himself. He passed his hand slowly over his hollowcheeks, and gazed for several moments at his fingers, which were wet,"What!" he murmured, "I have wept!"
And turning suddenly to the gypsy with unspeakable anguish,--
"Alas! you have looked coldly on at my tears! Child, do you know thatthose tears are of lava? Is it indeed true? Nothing touches when itcomes from the man whom one does not love. If you were to see me die,you would laugh. Oh! I do not wish
to see you die! One word! A singleword of pardon! Say not that you love me, say only that you will do it;that will suffice; I will save you. If not--oh! the hour is passing. Ientreat you by all that is sacred, do not wait until I shall have turnedto stone again, like that gibbet which also claims you! Reflect thatI hold the destinies of both of us in my hand, that I am mad,--it isterrible,--that I may let all go to destruction, and that there isbeneath us a bottomless abyss, unhappy girl, whither my fall will followyours to all eternity! One word of kindness! Say one word! only oneword!"
She opened her mouth to answer him. He flung himself on his knees toreceive with adoration the word, possibly a tender one, which was on thepoint of issuing from her lips. She said to him, "You are an assassin!"
The priest clasped her in his arms with fury, and began to laugh with anabominable laugh.
"Well, yes, an assassin!" he said, "and I will have you. You will nothave me for your slave, you shall have me for your master. I will haveyou! I have a den, whither I will drag you. You will follow me, youwill be obliged to follow me, or I will deliver you up! You must die, mybeauty, or be mine! belong to the priest! belong to the apostate! belongto the assassin! this very night, do you hear? Come! joy; kiss me, madgirl! The tomb or my bed!"
His eyes sparkled with impurity and rage. His lewd lips reddened theyoung girl's neck. She struggled in his arms. He covered her withfurious kisses.
"Do not bite me, monster!" she cried. "Oh! the foul, odious monk! leaveme! I will tear out thy ugly gray hair and fling it in thy face by thehandful!"
He reddened, turned pale, then released her and gazed at her with agloomy air. She thought herself victorious, and continued,--
"I tell you that I belong to my Phoebus, that 'tis Phoebus whom I love,that 'tis Phoebus who is handsome! you are old, priest! you are ugly!Begone!"
He gave vent to a horrible cry, like the wretch to whom a hot iron isapplied. "Die, then!" he said, gnashing his teeth. She saw his terriblelook and tried to fly. He caught her once more, he shook her, he flungher on the ground, and walked with rapid strides towards the cornerof the Tour-Roland, dragging her after him along the pavement by herbeautiful hands.
On arriving there, he turned to her,--
"For the last time, will you be mine?"
She replied with emphasis,--
"No!"
Then he cried in a loud voice,--
"Gudule! Gudule! here is the gypsy! take your vengeance!"
The young girl felt herself seized suddenly by the elbow. She looked.A fleshless arm was stretched from an opening in the wall, and held herlike a hand of iron.
"Hold her well," said the priest; "'tis the gypsy escaped. Release hernot. I will go in search of the sergeants. You shall see her hanged."
A guttural laugh replied from the interior of the wall to these bloodywords--"Hah! hah! hah!"--The gypsy watched the priest retire inthe direction of the Pont Notre-Dame. A cavalcade was heard in thatdirection.
The young girl had recognized the spiteful recluse. Panting with terror,she tried to disengage herself. She writhed, she made many starts ofagony and despair, but the other held her with incredible strength. Thelean and bony fingers which bruised her, clenched on her flesh and metaround it. One would have said that this hand was riveted to her arm. Itwas more than a chain, more than a fetter, more than a ring of iron, itwas a living pair of pincers endowed with intelligence, which emergedfrom the wall.
She fell back against the wall exhausted, and then the fear of deathtook possession of her. She thought of the beauty of life, of youth, ofthe view of heaven, the aspects of nature, of her love for Phoebus, ofall that was vanishing and all that was approaching, of the priest whowas denouncing her, of the headsman who was to come, of the gallowswhich was there. Then she felt terror mount to the very roots of herhair and she heard the mocking laugh of the recluse, saying to her in avery low tone: "Hah! hah! hah! you are going to be hanged!"
She turned a dying look towards the window, and she beheld the fierceface of the sacked nun through the bars.
"What have I done to you?" she said, almost lifeless.
The recluse did not reply, but began to mumble with a singsongirritated, mocking intonation: "Daughter of Egypt! daughter of Egypt!daughter of Egypt!"
The unhappy Esmeralda dropped her head beneath her flowing hair,comprehending that it was no human being she had to deal with.
All at once the recluse exclaimed, as though the gypsy's question hadtaken all this time to reach her brain,--"'What have you done to me?'you say! Ah! what have you done to me, gypsy! Well! listen.--I had achild! you see! I had a child! a child, I tell you!--a pretty littlegirl!--my Agnes!" she went on wildly, kissing something in thedark.--"Well! do you see, daughter of Egypt? they took my child from me;they stole my child; they ate my child. That is what you have done tome."
The young girl replied like a lamb,--
"Alas! perchance I was not born then!"
"Oh! yes!" returned the recluse, "you must have been born. You wereamong them. She would be the same age as you! so!--I have been herefifteen years; fifteen years have I suffered; fifteen years have Iprayed; fifteen years have I beat my head against these four walls--Itell you that 'twas the gypsies who stole her from me, do you hear that?and who ate her with their teeth.--Have you a heart? imagine a childplaying, a child sucking; a child sleeping. It is so innocent athing!--Well! that, that is what they took from me, what they killed.The good God knows it well! To-day, it is my turn; I am going to eat thegypsy.--Oh! I would bite you well, if the bars did not prevent me! Myhead is too large!--Poor little one! while she was asleep! And ifthey woke her up when they took her, in vain she might cry; I was notthere!--Ah! gypsy mothers, you devoured my child! come see your own."
Then she began to laugh or to gnash her teeth, for the two thingsresembled each other in that furious face. The day was beginning todawn. An ashy gleam dimly lighted this scene, and the gallows grew moreand more distinct in the square. On the other side, in the direction ofthe bridge of Notre-Dame, the poor condemned girl fancied that she heardthe sound of cavalry approaching.
"Madam," she cried, clasping her hands and falling on her knees,dishevelled, distracted, mad with fright; "madam! have pity! They arecoming. I have done nothing to you. Would you wish to see me die in thishorrible fashion before your very eyes? You are pitiful, I am sure. Itis too frightful. Let me make my escape. Release me! Mercy. I do notwish to die like that!"
"Give me back my child!" said the recluse.
"Mercy! Mercy!"
"Give me back my child!"
"Release me, in the name of heaven!"
"Give me back my child!"
Again the young girl fell; exhausted, broken, and having already theglassy eye of a person in the grave.
"Alas!" she faltered, "you seek your child, I seek my parents."
"Give me back my little Agnes!" pursued Gudule. "You do not know whereshe is? Then die!--I will tell you. I was a woman of the town, I had achild, they took my child. It was the gypsies. You see plainly that youmust die. When your mother, the gypsy, comes to reclaim you, I shall sayto her: 'Mother, look at that gibbet!--Or, give me back my child. Do youknow where she is, my little daughter? Stay! I will show you. Here isher shoe, all that is left me of her. Do you know where its mate is? Ifyou know, tell me, and if it is only at the other end of the world, Iwill crawl to it on my knees."
As she spoke thus, with her other arm extended through the window,she showed the gypsy the little embroidered shoe. It was already lightenough to distinguish its shape and its colors.
"Let me see that shoe," said the gypsy, quivering. "God! God!"
And at the same time, with her hand which was at liberty, she quicklyopened the little bag ornamented with green glass, which she wore abouther neck.
"Go on, go on!" grumbled Gudule, "search your demon's amulet!"
All at once, she stopped short, trembled in every limb, and cried in avoice which proceeded from the very depths of her being: "My daughter!"
>
The gypsy had just drawn from the bag a little shoe absolutely similarto the other. To this little shoe was attached a parchment on which wasinscribed this charm,--
_Quand le parell retrouveras Ta mere te tendras les bras_.*
* When thou shalt find its mate, thy mother will stretch outher arms to thee.
Quicker than a flash of lightning, the recluse had laid the two shoestogether, had read the parchment and had put close to the bars of thewindow her face beaming with celestial joy as she cried,--
"My daughter! my daughter!"
"My mother!" said the gypsy.
Here we are unequal to the task of depicting the scene. The wall and theiron bars were between them. "Oh! the wall!" cried the recluse. "Oh! tosee her and not to embrace her! Your hand! your hand!"
The young girl passed her arm through the opening; the recluse threwherself on that hand, pressed her lips to it and there remained, buriedin that kiss, giving no other sign of life than a sob which heaved herbreast from time to time. In the meanwhile, she wept in torrents, insilence, in the dark, like a rain at night. The poor mother poured outin floods upon that adored hand the dark and deep well of tears, whichlay within her, and into which her grief had filtered, drop by drop, forfifteen years.
All at once she rose, flung aside her long gray hair from her brow, andwithout uttering a word, began to shake the bars of her cage cell, withboth hands, more furiously than a lioness. The bars held firm. Then shewent to seek in the corner of her cell a huge paving stone, which servedher as a pillow, and launched it against them with such violence thatone of the bars broke, emitting thousands of sparks. A second blowcompletely shattered the old iron cross which barricaded the window.Then with her two hands, she finished breaking and removing the rustedstumps of the bars. There are moments when woman's hands possesssuperhuman strength.
A passage broken, less than a minute was required for her to seize herdaughter by the middle of her body, and draw her into her cell. "Comelet me draw you out of the abyss," she murmured.
When her daughter was inside the cell, she laid her gently on theground, then raised her up again, and bearing her in her arms as thoughshe were still only her little Agnes, she walked to and fro in herlittle room, intoxicated, frantic, joyous, crying out, singing, kissingher daughter, talking to her, bursting into laughter, melting intotears, all at once and with vehemence.
"My daughter! my daughter!" she said. "I have my daughter! here she is!The good God has given her back to me! Ha you! come all of you! Is thereany one there to see that I have my daughter? Lord Jesus, how beautifulshe is! You have made me wait fifteen years, my good God, but it was inorder to give her back to me beautiful.--Then the gypsies did not eather! Who said so? My little daughter! my little daughter! Kiss me. Thosegood gypsies! I love the gypsies!--It is really you! That was what mademy heart leap every time that you passed by. And I took that for hatred!Forgive me, my Agnes, forgive me. You thought me very malicious, didyou not? I love you. Have you still the little mark on your neck? Letus see. She still has it. Oh! you are beautiful! It was I who gave youthose big eyes, mademoiselle. Kiss me. I love you. It is nothing to methat other mothers have children; I scorn them now. They have only tocome and see. Here is mine. See her neck, her eyes, her hair, her hands.Find me anything as beautiful as that! Oh! I promise you she will havelovers, that she will! I have wept for fifteen years. All my beauty hasdeparted and has fallen to her. Kiss me."
She addressed to her a thousand other extravagant remarks, whose accentconstituted their sole beauty, disarranged the poor girl's garments evento the point of making her blush, smoothed her silky hair with her hand,kissed her foot, her knee, her brow, her eyes, was in raptures overeverything. The young girl let her have her way, repeating at intervalsand very low and with infinite tenderness, "My mother!"
"Do you see, my little girl," resumed the recluse, interspersing herwords with kisses, "I shall love you dearly? We will go away from here.We are going to be very happy. I have inherited something in Reims, inour country. You know Reims? Ah! no, you do not know it; you were toosmall! If you only knew how pretty you were at the age of four months!Tiny feet that people came even from Epernay, which is seven leaguesaway, to see! We shall have a field, a house. I will put you to sleep inmy bed. My God! my God! who would believe this? I have my daughter!"
"Oh, my mother!" said the young girl, at length finding strength tospeak in her emotion, "the gypsy woman told me so. There was a goodgypsy of our band who died last year, and who always cared for me likea nurse. It was she who placed this little bag about my neck. She alwayssaid to me: 'Little one, guard this jewel well! 'Tis a treasure. It willcause thee to find thy mother once again. Thou wearest thy mother aboutthy neck.'--The gypsy predicted it!"
The sacked nun again pressed her daughter in her arms.
"Come, let me kiss you! You say that prettily. When we are in thecountry, we will place these little shoes on an infant Jesus in thechurch. We certainly owe that to the good, holy Virgin. What a prettyvoice you have! When you spoke to me just now, it was music! Ah! my LordGod! I have found my child again! But is this story credible? Nothingwill kill one--or I should have died of joy."
And then she began to clap her hands again and to laugh and to cry out:"We are going to be so happy!"
At that moment, the cell resounded with the clang of arms and agalloping of horses which seemed to be coming from the Pont Notre-Dame,amid advancing farther and farther along the quay. The gypsy threwherself with anguish into the arms of the sacked nun.
"Save me! save me! mother! they are coming!"
"Oh, heaven! what are you saying? I had forgotten! They are in pursuitof you! What have you done?"
"I know not," replied the unhappy child; "but I am condemned to die."
"To die!" said Gudule, staggering as though struck by lightning; "todie!" she repeated slowly, gazing at her daughter with staring eyes.
"Yes, mother," replied the frightened young girl, "they want to kill me.They are coming to seize me. That gallows is for me! Save me! save me!They are coming! Save me!"
The recluse remained for several moments motionless and petrified, thenshe moved her head in sign of doubt, and suddenly giving vent to a burstof laughter, but with that terrible laugh which had come back to her,--
"Ho! ho! no! 'tis a dream of which you are telling me. Ah, yes! I losther, that lasted fifteen years, and then I found her again, and thatlasted a minute! And they would take her from me again! And now, whenshe is beautiful, when she is grown up, when she speaks to me, when sheloves me; it is now that they would come to devour her, before my veryeyes, and I her mother! Oh! no! these things are not possible. The goodGod does not permit such things as that."
Here the cavalcade appeared to halt, and a voice was heard to say in thedistance,--
"This way, Messire Tristan! The priest says that we shall find her atthe Rat-Hole." The noise of the horses began again.
The recluse sprang to her feet with a shriek of despair. "Fly! fly! mychild! All comes back to me. You are right. It is your death! Horror!Maledictions! Fly!"
She thrust her head through the window, and withdrew it again hastily.
"Remain," she said, in a low, curt, and lugubrious tone, as she pressedthe hand of the gypsy, who was more dead than alive. "Remain! Do notbreathe! There are soldiers everywhere. You cannot get out. It is toolight."
Her eyes were dry and burning. She remained silent for a moment; but shepaced the cell hurriedly, and halted now and then to pluck out handfulsof her gray hairs, which she afterwards tore with her teeth.
Suddenly she said: "They draw near. I will speak with them. Hideyourself in this corner. They will not see you. I will tell them thatyou have made your escape. That I released you, i' faith!"
She set her daughter (down for she was still carrying her), in onecorner of the cell which was not visible from without. She made hercrouch down, arranged her carefully so that neither foot nor handprojected from the shadow, untied he
r black hair which she spread overher white robe to conceal it, placed in front of her her jug and herpaving stone, the only articles of furniture which she possessed,imagining that this jug and stone would hide her. And when this wasfinished she became more tranquil, and knelt down to pray. The day,which was only dawning, still left many shadows in the Rat-Hole.
At that moment, the voice of the priest, that infernal voice, passedvery close to the cell, crying,--
"This way, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers."
At that name, at that voice, la Esmeralda, crouching in her corner, madea movement.
"Do not stir!" said Gudule.
She had barely finished when a tumult of men, swords, and horses haltedaround the cell. The mother rose quickly and went to post herself beforeher window, in order to stop it up. She beheld a large troop of armedmen, both horse and foot, drawn up on the Greve.
The commander dismounted, and came toward her.
"Old woman!" said this man, who had an atrocious face, "we are in searchof a witch to hang her; we were told that you had her."
The poor mother assumed as indifferent an air as she could, andreplied,--
"I know not what you mean."
The other resumed, "_Tete Dieu_! What was it that frightened archdeaconsaid? Where is he?"
"Monseigneur," said a soldier, "he has disappeared."
"Come, now, old madwoman," began the commander again, "do not lie. Asorceress was given in charge to you. What have you done with her?"
The recluse did not wish to deny all, for fear of awakening suspicion,and replied in a sincere and surly tone,--
"If you are speaking of a big young girl who was put into my hands awhile ago, I will tell you that she bit me, and that I released her.There! Leave me in peace."
The commander made a grimace of disappointment. "Don't lie to me, oldspectre!" said he. "My name is Tristan l'Hermite, and I am the king'sgossip. Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?" He added, as he glanced at thePlace de Greve around him, "'Tis a name which has an echo here."
"You might be Satan the Hermit," replied Gudule, who was regaining hope,"but I should have nothing else to say to you, and I should never beafraid of you."
"_Tete-Dieu_," said Tristan, "here is a crone! Ah! So the witch girlhath fled! And in which direction did she go?" Gudule replied in acareless tone,--
"Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe."
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to setout on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once more.
"Monseigneur," suddenly said an archer, "ask the old elf why the bars ofher window are broken in this manner."
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserablemother. Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.
"They have always been thus," she stammered.
"Bah!" retorted the archer, "only yesterday they still formed a fineblack cross, which inspired devotion."
Tristan east a sidelong glance at the recluse.
"I think the old dame is getting confused!"
The unfortunate woman felt that all depended on her self-possession,and, although with death in her soul, she began to grin. Mothers possesssuch strength.
"Bah!" said she, "the man is drunk. 'Tis more than a year since the tailof a stone cart dashed against my window and broke in the grating. Andhow I cursed the carter, too."
"'Tis true," said another archer, "I was there."
Always and everywhere people are to be found who have seen everything.This unexpected testimony from the archer re-encouraged the recluse,whom this interrogatory was forcing to cross an abyss on the edge ofa knife. But she was condemned to a perpetual alternative of hope andalarm.
"If it was a cart which did it," retorted the first soldier, "the stumpsof the bars should be thrust inwards, while they actually are pushedoutwards."
"Ho! ho!" said Tristan to the soldier, "you have the nose of aninquisitor of the Chatelet. Reply to what he says, old woman."
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, driven to bay, and in a voice that wasfull of tears in despite of her efforts, "I swear to you, monseigneur,that 'twas a cart which broke those bars. You hear the man who saw it.And then, what has that to do with your gypsy?"
"Hum!" growled Tristan.
"The devil!" went on the soldier, flattered by the provost's praise,"these fractures of the iron are perfectly fresh."
Tristan tossed his head. She turned pale.
"How long ago, say you, did the cart do it?"
"A month, a fortnight, perhaps, monseigheur, I know not."
"She first said more than a year," observed the soldier.
"That is suspicious," said the provost.
"Monseigneur!" she cried, still pressed against the opening, andtrembling lest suspicion should lead them to thrust their heads throughand look into her cell; "monseigneur, I swear to you that 'twas a cartwhich broke this grating. I swear it to you by the angels of paradise.If it was not a cart, may I be eternally damned, and I reject God!"
"You put a great deal of heat into that oath;" said Tristan, with hisinquisitorial glance.
The poor woman felt her assurance vanishing more and more. She hadreached the point of blundering, and she comprehended with terror thatshe was saying what she ought not to have said.
Here another soldier came up, crying,--
"Monsieur, the old hag lies. The sorceress did not flee through the Ruede Mouton. The street chain has remained stretched all night, and thechain guard has seen no one pass."
Tristan, whose face became more sinister with every moment, addressedthe recluse,--
"What have you to say to that?"
She tried to make head against this new incident,
"That I do not know, monseigneur; that I may have been mistaken. Ibelieve, in fact, that she crossed the water."
"That is in the opposite direction," said the provost, "and it is notvery likely that she would wish to re-enter the city, where she wasbeing pursued. You are lying, old woman."
"And then," added the first soldier, "there is no boat either on thisside of the stream or on the other."
"She swam across," replied the recluse, defending her ground foot byfoot.
"Do women swim?" said the soldier.
"_Tete Dieu_! old woman! You are lying!" repeated Tristan angrily. "Ihave a good mind to abandon that sorceress and take you. A quarter of anhour of torture will, perchance, draw the truth from your throat. Come!You are to follow us."
She seized on these words with avidity.
"As you please, monseigneur. Do it. Do it. Torture. I am willing. Takeme away. Quick, quick! let us set out at once!--During that time," shesaid to herself, "my daughter will make her escape."
"'S death!" said the provost, "what an appetite for the rack! Iunderstand not this madwoman at all."
An old, gray-haired sergeant of the guard stepped out of the ranks, andaddressing the provost,--
"Mad in sooth, monseigneur. If she released the gypsy, it was not herfault, for she loves not the gypsies. I have been of the watch thesefifteen years, and I hear her every evening cursing the Bohemian womenwith endless imprecations. If the one of whom we are in pursuit is, as Isuppose, the little dancer with the goat, she detests that one above allthe rest."
Gudule made an effort and said,--
"That one above all."
The unanimous testimony of the men of the watch confirmed the oldsergeant's words to the provost. Tristan l'Hermite, in despair atextracting anything from the recluse, turned his back on her, and withunspeakable anxiety she beheld him direct his course slowly towards hishorse.
"Come!" he said, between his teeth, "March on! let us set out again onthe quest. I shall not sleep until that gypsy is hanged."
But he still hesitated for some time before mounting his horse. Gudulepalpitated between life and death, as she beheld him cast about thePlace that uneasy look of a hunting dog which instinctively feels thatthe lair of the beast is close to him, and is loath to go away. Atleng
th he shook his head and leaped into his saddle. Gudule's horriblycompressed heart now dilated, and she said in a low voice, as she cast aglance at her daughter, whom she had not ventured to look at while theywere there, "Saved!"
The poor child had remained all this time in her corner, withoutbreathing, without moving, with the idea of death before her. She hadlost nothing of the scene between Gudule and Tristan, and the anguishof her mother had found its echo in her heart. She had heard all thesuccessive snappings of the thread by which she hung suspended over thegulf; twenty times she had fancied that she saw it break, and at lastshe began to breathe again and to feel her foot on firm ground. At thatmoment she heard a voice saying to the provost: "_Corboeuf_! Monsieurle Prevot, 'tis no affair of mine, a man of arms, to hang witches.The rabble of the populace is suppressed. I leave you to attend to thematter alone. You will allow me to rejoin my company, who are waitingfor their captain."
The voice was that of Phoebus de Chateaupers; that which took placewithin her was ineffable. He was there, her friend, her protector, hersupport, her refuge, her Phoebus. She rose, and before her mother couldprevent her, she had rushed to the window, crying,--
"Phoebus! aid me, my Phoebus!"
Phoebus was no longer there. He had just turned the corner of the Rue dela Coutellerie at a gallop. But Tristan had not yet taken his departure.
The recluse rushed upon her daughter with a roar of agony. She draggedher violently back, digging her nails into her neck. A tigress motherdoes not stand on trifles. But it was too late. Tristan had seen.
"He! he!" he exclaimed with a laugh which laid bare all his teeth andmade his face resemble the muzzle of a wolf, "two mice in the trap!"
"I suspected as much," said the soldier.
Tristan clapped him on the shoulder,--
"You are a good cat! Come!" he added, "where is Henriet Cousin?"
A man who had neither the garments nor the air of a soldier, steppedfrom the ranks. He wore a costume half gray, half brown, flat hair,leather sleeves, and carried a bundle of ropes in his huge hand. Thisman always attended Tristan, who always attended Louis XI. "Friend,"said Tristan l'Hermite, "I presume that this is the sorceress of whom weare in search. You will hang me this one. Have you your ladder?"
"There is one yonder, under the shed of the Pillar-House," replied theman. "Is it on this justice that the thing is to be done?" he added,pointing to the stone gibbet.
"Yes."
"Ho, he!" continued the man with a huge laugh, which was still morebrutal than that of the provost, "we shall not have far to go."
"Make haste!" said Tristan, "you shall laugh afterwards."
In the meantime, the recluse had not uttered another word since Tristanhad seen her daughter and all hope was lost. She had flung the poorgypsy, half dead, into the corner of the cellar, and had placed herselfonce more at the window with both hands resting on the angle of the silllike two claws. In this attitude she was seen to cast upon all thosesoldiers her glance which had become wild and frantic once more. At themoment when Rennet Cousin approached her cell, she showed him so savagea face that he shrank back.
"Monseigneur," he said, returning to the provost, "which am I to take?"
"The young one."
"So much the better, for the old one seemeth difficult."
"Poor little dancer with the goat!" said the old sergeant of the watch.
Rennet Cousin approached the window again. The mother's eyes made hisown droop. He said with a good deal of timidity,--
"Madam"--
She interrupted him in a very low but furious voice,--
"What do you ask?"
"It is not you," he said, "it is the other."
"What other?"
"The young one."
She began to shake her head, crying,--
"There is no one! there is no one! there is no one!"
"Yes, there is!" retorted the hangman, "and you know it well. Let metake the young one. I have no wish to harm you."
She said, with a strange sneer,--
"Ah! so you have no wish to harm me!"
"Let me have the other, madam; 'tis monsieur the provost who wills it."
She repeated with a look of madness,--
"There is no one here."
"I tell you that there is!" replied the executioner. "We have all seenthat there are two of you."
"Look then!" said the recluse, with a sneer. "Thrust your head throughthe window."
The executioner observed the mother's finger-nails and dared not.
"Make haste!" shouted Tristan, who had just ranged his troops in acircle round the Rat-Hole, and who sat on his horse beside the gallows.
Rennet returned once more to the provost in great embarrassment. He hadflung his rope on the ground, and was twisting his hat between his handswith an awkward air.
"Monseigneur," he asked, "where am I to enter?"
"By the door."
"There is none."
"By the window."
"'Tis too small."
"Make it larger," said Tristan angrily. "Have you not pickaxes?"
The mother still looked on steadfastly from the depths of her cavern.She no longer hoped for anything, she no longer knew what she wished,except that she did not wish them to take her daughter.
Rennet Cousin went in search of the chest of tools for the night man,under the shed of the Pillar-House. He drew from it also the doubleladder, which he immediately set up against the gallows. Five or six ofthe provost's men armed themselves with picks and crowbars, and Tristanbetook himself, in company with them, towards the window.
"Old woman," said the provost, in a severe tone, "deliver up to us thatgirl quietly."
She looked at him like one who does not understand.
"_Tete Dieu_!" continued Tristan, "why do you try to prevent thissorceress being hung as it pleases the king?"
The wretched woman began to laugh in her wild way.
"Why? She is my daughter."
The tone in which she pronounced these words made even Henriet Cousinshudder.
"I am sorry for that," said the provost, "but it is the king's goodpleasure."
She cried, redoubling her terrible laugh,--
"What is your king to me? I tell you that she is my daughter!"
"Pierce the wall," said Tristan.
In order to make a sufficiently wide opening, it sufficed to dislodgeone course of stone below the window. When the mother heard the picksand crowbars mining her fortress, she uttered a terrible cry; then shebegan to stride about her cell with frightful swiftness, a wild beasts'habit which her cage had imparted to her. She no longer said anything,but her eyes flamed. The soldiers were chilled to the very soul.
All at once she seized her paving stone, laughed, and hurled it withboth fists upon the workmen. The stone, badly flung (for her handstrembled), touched no one, and fell short under the feet of Tristan'shorse. She gnashed her teeth.
In the meantime, although the sun had not yet risen, it was broaddaylight; a beautiful rose color enlivened the ancient, decayed chimneysof the Pillar-House. It was the hour when the earliest windows of thegreat city open joyously on the roofs. Some workmen, a few fruit-sellerson their way to the markets on their asses, began to traverse the Greve;they halted for a moment before this group of soldiers clustered roundthe Rat-Hole, stared at it with an air of astonishment and passed on.
The recluse had gone and seated herself by her daughter, covering herwith her body, in front of her, with staring eyes, listening to the poorchild, who did not stir, but who kept murmuring in a low voice, thesewords only, "Phoebus! Phoebus!" In proportion as the work of thedemolishers seemed to advance, the mother mechanically retreated, andpressed the young girl closer and closer to the wall. All at once, therecluse beheld the stone (for she was standing guard and never tookher eyes from it), move, and she heard Tristan's voice encouraging theworkers. Then she aroused from the depression into which she had fallenduring the last few moments, cried out, and as she spoke, her voi
cenow rent the ear like a saw, then stammered as though all kind ofmaledictions were pressing to her lips to burst forth at once.
"Ho! ho! ho! Why this is terrible! You are ruffians! Are you reallygoing to take my daughter? Oh! the cowards! Oh! the hangman lackeys!the wretched, blackguard assassins! Help! help! fire! Will they take mychild from me like this? Who is it then who is called the good God?"
Then, addressing Tristan, foaming at the mouth, with wild eyes, allbristling and on all fours like a female panther,--
"Draw near and take my daughter! Do not you understand that this womantells you that she is my daughter? Do you know what it is to have achild? Eh! lynx, have you never lain with your female? have you neverhad a cub? and if you have little ones, when they howl have you nothingin your vitals that moves?"
"Throw down the stone," said Tristan; "it no longer holds."
The crowbars raised the heavy course. It was, as we have said, themother's last bulwark.
She threw herself upon it, she tried to hold it back; she scratched thestone with her nails, but the massive block, set in movement by six men,escaped her and glided gently to the ground along the iron levers.
The mother, perceiving an entrance effected, fell down in front of theopening, barricading the breach with her body, beating the pavement withher head, and shrieking with a voice rendered so hoarse by fatigue thatit was hardly audible,--
"Help! fire! fire!"
"Now take the wench," said Tristan, still impassive.
The mother gazed at the soldiers in such formidable fashion that theywere more inclined to retreat than to advance.
"Come, now," repeated the provost. "Here you, Rennet Cousin!"
No one took a step.
The provost swore,--
"_Tete de Christ_! my men of war! afraid of a woman!"
"Monseigneur," said Rennet, "do you call that a woman?"
"She has the mane of a lion," said another.
"Come!" repeated the provost, "the gap is wide enough. Enter threeabreast, as at the breach of Pontoise. Let us make an end of it, deathof Mahom! I will make two pieces of the first man who draws back!"
Placed between the provost and the mother, both threatening, thesoldiers hesitated for a moment, then took their resolution, andadvanced towards the Rat-Hole.
When the recluse saw this, she rose abruptly on her knees, flung asideher hair from her face, then let her thin flayed hands fall by her side.Then great tears fell, one by one, from her eyes; they flowed downher cheeks through a furrow, like a torrent through a bed which it hashollowed for itself.
At the same time she began to speak, but in a voice so supplicating,so gentle, so submissive, so heartrending, that more than one oldconvict-warder around Tristan who must have devoured human flesh wipedhis eyes.
"Messeigneurs! messieurs the sergeants, one word. There is one thingwhich I must say to you. She is my daughter, do you see? my dear littledaughter whom I had lost! Listen. It is quite a history. Consider thatI knew the sergeants very well. They were always good to me in thedays when the little boys threw stones at me, because I led a life ofpleasure. Do you see? You will leave me my child when you know! I was apoor woman of the town. It was the Bohemians who stole her from me. AndI kept her shoe for fifteen years. Stay, here it is. That was the kindof foot which she had. At Reims! La Chantefleurie! Rue Folle-Peine!Perchance, you knew about that. It was I. In your youth, then, there wasa merry time, when one passed good hours. You will take pity on me, willyou not, gentlemen? The gypsies stole her from me; they hid her from mefor fifteen years. I thought her dead. Fancy, my good friends, believedher to be dead. I have passed fifteen years here in this cellar, withouta fire in winter. It is hard. The poor, dear little shoe! I have criedso much that the good God has heard me. This night he has given mydaughter back to me. It is a miracle of the good God. She was not dead.You will not take her from me, I am sure. If it were myself, I wouldsay nothing; but she, a child of sixteen! Leave her time to see the sun!What has she done to you? nothing at all. Nor have I. If you did butknow that she is all I have, that I am old, that she is a blessing whichthe Holy Virgin has sent to me! And then, you are all so good! You didnot know that she was my daughter; but now you do know it. Oh! I loveher! Monsieur, the grand provost. I would prefer a stab in my own vitalsto a scratch on her finger! You have the air of such a good lord! WhatI have told you explains the matter, does it not? Oh! if you have hada mother, monsiegneur! you are the captain, leave me my child! Considerthat I pray you on my knees, as one prays to Jesus Christ! I ask nothingof any one; I am from Reims, gentlemen; I own a little field inheritedfrom my uncle, Mahiet Pradon. I am no beggar. I wish nothing, but I dowant my child! oh! I want to keep my child! The good God, who is themaster, has not given her back to me for nothing! The king! you say theking! It would not cause him much pleasure to have my little daughterkilled! And then, the king is good! she is my daughter! she is my owndaughter! She belongs not to the king! she is not yours! I want to goaway! we want to go away! and when two women pass, one a mother and theother a daughter, one lets them go! Let us pass! we belong in Reims. Oh!you are very good, messieurs the sergeants, I love you all. You will nottake my dear little one, it is impossible! It is utterly impossible, isit not? My child, my child!"
We will not try to give an idea of her gestures, her tone, of the tearswhich she swallowed as she spoke, of the hands which she clasped andthen wrung, of the heart-breaking smiles, of the swimming glances,of the groans, the sighs, the miserable and affecting cries which shemingled with her disordered, wild, and incoherent words. When she becamesilent Tristan l'Hermite frowned, but it was to conceal a tear whichwelled up in his tiger's eye. He conquered this weakness, however, andsaid in a curt tone,--
"The king wills it."
Then he bent down to the ear of Rennet Cousin, and said to him in a verylow tone,--
"Make an end of it quickly!" Possibly, the redoubtable provost felt hisheart also failing him.
The executioner and the sergeants entered the cell. The mother offeredno resistance, only she dragged herself towards her daughter and threwherself bodily upon her. The gypsy beheld the soldiers approach. Thehorror of death reanimated her,--
"Mother!" she shrieked, in a tone of indescribable distress, "Mother!they are coming! defend me!"
"Yes, my love, I am defending you!" replied the mother, in a dyingvoice; and clasping her closely in her arms, she covered her withkisses. The two lying thus on the earth, the mother upon the daughter,presented a spectacle worthy of pity.
Rennet Cousin grasped the young girl by the middle of her body, beneathher beautiful shoulders. When she felt that hand, she cried, "Heuh!" andfainted. The executioner who was shedding large tears upon her, dropby drop, was about to bear her away in his arms. He tried to detach themother, who had, so to speak, knotted her hands around her daughter'swaist; but she clung so strongly to her child, that it was impossibleto separate them. Then Rennet Cousin dragged the young girl outside thecell, and the mother after her. The mother's eyes were also closed.
At that moment, the sun rose, and there was already on the Place afairly numerous assembly of people who looked on from a distance at whatwas being thus dragged along the pavement to the gibbet. For that wasProvost Tristan's way at executions. He had a passion for preventing theapproach of the curious.
There was no one at the windows. Only at a distance, at the summit ofthat one of the towers of Notre-Dame which commands the Greve, two menoutlined in black against the light morning sky, and who seemed to belooking on, were visible.
Rennet Cousin paused at the foot of the fatal ladder, with that whichhe was dragging, and, barely breathing, with so much pity did the thinginspire him, he passed the rope around the lovely neck of the younggirl. The unfortunate child felt the horrible touch of the hemp. Sheraised her eyelids, and saw the fleshless arm of the stone gallowsextended above her head. Then she shook herself and shrieked in a loudand heartrending voice: "No! no! I will not!" Her mother, whose head wasburied and conceal
ed in her daughter's garments, said not a word; onlyher whole body could be seen to quiver, and she was heard to redoubleher kisses on her child. The executioner took advantage of this momentto hastily loose the arms with which she clasped the condemned girl.Either through exhaustion or despair, she let him have his way. Then hetook the young girl on his shoulder, from which the charming creaturehung, gracefully bent over his large head. Then he set his foot on theladder in order to ascend.
At that moment, the mother who was crouching on the pavement, openedher eyes wide. Without uttering a cry, she raised herself erect witha terrible expression; then she flung herself upon the hand of theexecutioner, like a beast on its prey, and bit it. It was done like aflash of lightning. The headsman howled with pain. Those near by rushedup. With difficulty they withdrew his bleeding hand from the mother'steeth. She preserved a profound silence. They thrust her back with muchbrutality, and noticed that her head fell heavily on the pavement. Theyraised her, she fell back again. She was dead.
The executioner, who had not loosed his hold on the young girl, began toascend the ladder once more.
CHAPTER II. THE BEAUTIFUL CREATURE CLAD IN WHITE. (Dante.)