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-book second.chapter vii. a bridal night. a few moments later our poet found himselfin a tiny arched chamber, very cosy, very warm, seated at a table which appeared toask nothing better than to make some loans from a larder hanging near by, having a good bed in prospect, and alone with apretty girl. the adventure smacked of enchantment. he began seriously to take himself for apersonage in a fairy tale; he cast his eyes about him from time to time to time, asthough to see if the chariot of fire,
harnessed to two-winged chimeras, which alone could have so rapidly transported himfrom tartarus to paradise, were still there. at times, also, he fixed his eyesobstinately upon the holes in his doublet, in order to cling to reality, and not losethe ground from under his feet completely. his reason, tossed about in imaginaryspace, now hung only by this thread. the young girl did not appear to pay anyattention to him; she went and came, displaced a stool, talked to her goat, andindulged in a pout now and then. at last she came and seated herself nearthe table, and gringoire was able to
scrutinize her at his ease. you have been a child, reader, and youwould, perhaps, be very happy to be one still. it is quite certain that you have not, morethan once (and for my part, i have passed whole days, the best employed of my life,at it) followed from thicket to thicket, by the side of running water, on a sunny day, a beautiful green or blue dragon-fly,breaking its flight in abrupt angles, and kissing the tips of all the branches. you recollect with what amorous curiosityyour thought and your gaze were riveted
upon this little whirlwind, hissing andhumming with wings of purple and azure, in the midst of which floated an imperceptible body, veiled by the very rapidity of itsmovement. the aerial being which was dimly outlinedamid this quivering of wings, appeared to you chimerical, imaginary, impossible totouch, impossible to see. but when, at length, the dragon-flyalighted on the tip of a reed, and, holding your breath the while, you were able toexamine the long, gauze wings, the long enamel robe, the two globes of crystal, what astonishment you felt, and what fearlest you should again behold the form
disappear into a shade, and the creatureinto a chimera! recall these impressions, and you willreadily appreciate what gringoire felt on contemplating, beneath her visible andpalpable form, that esmeralda of whom, up to that time, he had only caught a glimpse, amidst a whirlwind of dance, song, andtumult. sinking deeper and deeper into his revery:"so this," he said to himself, following her vaguely with his eyes, "is laesmeralda! a celestial creature! a street dancer! so much, and so little! 'twas she who dealt the death-blow to mymystery this morning, 'tis she who saves my
life this evening!my evil genius! my good angel! a pretty woman, on my word! and who mustneeds love me madly to have taken me in that fashion. by the way," said he, rising suddenly, withthat sentiment of the true which formed the foundation of his character and hisphilosophy, "i don't know very well how it happens, but i am her husband!" with this idea in his head and in his eyes,he stepped up to the young girl in a manner so military and so gallant that she drewback.
"what do you want of me?" said she. "can you ask me, adorable esmeralda?"replied gringoire, with so passionate an accent that he was himself astonished at iton hearing himself speak. the gypsy opened her great eyes. "i don't know what you mean." "what!" resumed gringoire, growing warmerand warmer, and supposing that, after all, he had to deal merely with a virtue of thecour des miracles; "am i not thine, sweet friend, art thou not mine?" and, quite ingenuously, he clasped herwaist.
the gypsy's corsage slipped through hishands like the skin of an eel. she bounded from one end of the tiny roomto the other, stooped down, and raised herself again, with a little poniard in herhand, before gringoire had even had time to see whence the poniard came; proud and angry, with swelling lips and inflatednostrils, her cheeks as red as an api apple, and her eyes darting lightnings. at the same time, the white goat placeditself in front of her, and presented to gringoire a hostile front, bristling withtwo pretty horns, gilded and very sharp. all this took place in the twinkling of aneye.
the dragon-fly had turned into a wasp, andasked nothing better than to sting. our philosopher was speechless, and turnedhis astonished eyes from the goat to the young girl. "holy virgin!" he said at last, whensurprise permitted him to speak, "here are two hearty dames!"the gypsy broke the silence on her side. "you must be a very bold knave!" "pardon, mademoiselle," said gringoire,with a smile. "but why did you take me for your husband?""should i have allowed you to be hanged?" "so," said the poet, somewhat disappointedin his amorous hopes.
"you had no other idea in marrying me thanto save me from the gibbet?" "and what other idea did you suppose that ihad?" gringoire bit his lips."come," said he, "i am not yet so triumphant in cupido, as i thought. but then, what was the good of breakingthat poor jug?" meanwhile esmeralda's dagger and the goat'shorns were still upon the defensive. "mademoiselle esmeralda," said the poet,"let us come to terms. i am not a clerk of the court, and i shallnot go to law with you for thus carrying a dagger in paris, in the teeth of theordinances and prohibitions of m. the
provost. nevertheless, you are not ignorant of thefact that noel lescrivain was condemned, a week ago, to pay ten parisian sous, forhaving carried a cutlass. but this is no affair of mine, and i willcome to the point. i swear to you, upon my share of paradise,not to approach you without your leave and permission, but do give me some supper." the truth is, gringoire was, like m.despreaux, "not very voluptuous." he did not belong to that chevalier andmusketeer species, who take young girls by assault.
in the matter of love, as in all otheraffairs, he willingly assented to temporizing and adjusting terms; and a goodsupper, and an amiable tete-a-tete appeared to him, especially when he was hungry, an excellent interlude between the prologueand the catastrophe of a love adventure. the gypsy did not reply. she made her disdainful little grimace,drew up her head like a bird, then burst out laughing, and the tiny poniarddisappeared as it had come, without gringoire being able to see where the waspconcealed its sting. a moment later, there stood upon the tablea loaf of rye bread, a slice of bacon, some
wrinkled apples and a jug of beer. gringoire began to eat eagerly.one would have said, to hear the furious clashing of his iron fork and hisearthenware plate, that all his love had turned to appetite. the young girl seated opposite him, watchedhim in silence, visibly preoccupied with another thought, at which she smiled fromtime to time, while her soft hand caressed the intelligent head of the goat, gentlypressed between her knees. a candle of yellow wax illuminated thisscene of voracity and revery. meanwhile, the first cravings of hisstomach having been stilled, gringoire felt
some false shame at perceiving that nothingremained but one apple. "you do not eat, mademoiselle esmeralda?" she replied by a negative sign of the head,and her pensive glance fixed itself upon the vault of the ceiling. "what the deuce is she thinking of?"thought gringoire, staring at what she was gazing at; "'tis impossible that it can bethat stone dwarf carved in the keystone of that arch, which thus absorbs herattention. what the deuce!i can bear the comparison!" he raised his voice, "mademoiselle!"
she seemed not to hear him.he repeated, still more loudly, "mademoiselle esmeralda!"trouble wasted. the young girl's mind was elsewhere, andgringoire's voice had not the power to recall it.fortunately, the goat interfered. she began to pull her mistress gently bythe sleeve. "what dost thou want, djali?" said thegypsy, hastily, as though suddenly awakened. "she is hungry," said gringoire, charmed toenter into conversation. esmeralda began to crumble some bread,which djali ate gracefully from the hollow
of her hand. moreover, gringoire did not give her timeto resume her revery. he hazarded a delicate question."so you don't want me for your husband?" the young girl looked at him intently, andsaid, "no." "for your lover?" went on gringoire.she pouted, and replied, "no." "for your friend?" pursued gringoire. she gazed fixedly at him again, and said,after a momentary reflection, "perhaps." this "perhaps," so dear to philosophers,emboldened gringoire. "do you know what friendship is?" he asked.
"yes," replied the gypsy; "it is to bebrother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.""and love?" pursued gringoire. "oh! love!" said she, and her voicetrembled, and her eye beamed. "that is to be two and to be but one.a man and a woman mingled into one angel. it is heaven." the street dancer had a beauty as she spokethus, that struck gringoire singularly, and seemed to him in perfect keeping with thealmost oriental exaltation of her words. her pure, red lips half smiled; her sereneand candid brow became troubled, at intervals, under her thoughts, like amirror under the breath; and from beneath
her long, drooping, black eyelashes, there escaped a sort of ineffable light, whichgave to her profile that ideal serenity which raphael found at the mystic point ofintersection of virginity, maternity, and divinity. nevertheless, gringoire continued,--"what must one be then, in order to please you?""a man." "and i--" said he, "what, then, am i?" "a man has a hemlet on his head, a sword inhis hand, and golden spurs on his heels." "good," said gringoire, "without a horse,no man.
do you love any one?" "as a lover?--""yes." she remained thoughtful for a moment, thensaid with a peculiar expression: "that i shall know soon." "why not this evening?" resumed the poettenderly. "why not me?"she cast a grave glance upon him and said - -,"i can never love a man who cannot protectme." gringoire colored, and took the hint.
it was evident that the young girl wasalluding to the slight assistance which he had rendered her in the critical situationin which she had found herself two hours previously. this memory, effaced by his own adventuresof the evening, now recurred to him. he smote his brow."by the way, mademoiselle, i ought to have begun there. pardon my foolish absence of mind.how did you contrive to escape from the claws of quasimodo?"this question made the gypsy shudder. "oh! the horrible hunchback," said she,hiding her face in her hands.
and she shuddered as though with violentcold. "horrible, in truth," said gringoire, whoclung to his idea; "but how did you manage to escape him?"la esmeralda smiled, sighed, and remained silent. "do you know why he followed you?" begangringoire again, seeking to return to his question by a circuitous route. "i don't know," said the young girl, andshe added hastily, "but you were following me also, why were you following me?""in good faith," responded gringoire, "i don't know either."
silence ensued.gringoire slashed the table with his knife. the young girl smiled and seemed to begazing through the wall at something. all at once she began to sing in a barelyarticulate voice,-- quando las pintadas aves,mudas estan, y la tierra--* * when the gay-plumaged birds grow weary,and the earth-- she broke off abruptly, and began to caressdjali. "that's a pretty animal of yours," saidgringoire. "she is my sister," she answered. "why are you called 'la esmeralda?'" askedthe poet.
"i do not know.""but why?" she drew from her bosom a sort of littleoblong bag, suspended from her neck by a string of adrezarach beads.this bag exhaled a strong odor of camphor. it was covered with green silk, and bore inits centre a large piece of green glass, in imitation of an emerald."perhaps it is because of this," said she. gringoire was on the point of taking thebag in his hand. she drew back."don't touch it! it is an amulet. you would injure the charm or the charmwould injure you."
the poet's curiosity was more and morearoused. "who gave it to you?" she laid one finger on her mouth andconcealed the amulet in her bosom. he tried a few more questions, but shehardly replied. "what is the meaning of the words, 'laesmeralda?'" "i don't know," said she."to what language do they belong?" "they are egyptian, i think." "i suspected as much," said gringoire, "youare not a native of france?" "i don't know.""are your parents alive?"
she began to sing, to an ancient air,-- mon pere est oiseau,ma mere est oiselle. je passe l'eau sans nacelle,je passe l'eau sans bateau, ma mere est oiselle,mon pere est oiseau.* * my father is a bird, my mother is abird. i cross the water without a barque,i cross the water without a boat. my mother is a bird, my father is a bird. "good," said gringoire."at what age did you come to france?" "when i was very young.""and when to paris?"
"last year. at the moment when we were entering thepapal gate i saw a reed warbler flit through the air, that was at the end ofaugust; i said, it will be a hard winter." "so it was," said gringoire, delighted atthis beginning of a conversation. "i passed it in blowing my fingers.so you have the gift of prophecy?" she retired into her laconics again. "is that man whom you call the duke ofegypt, the chief of your tribe?" "yes.""but it was he who married us," remarked the poet timidly.
she made her customary pretty grimace."i don't even know your name." "my name?if you want it, here it is,--pierre gringoire." "i know a prettier one," said she."naughty girl!" retorted the poet. "never mind, you shall not provoke me. wait, perhaps you will love me more whenyou know me better; and then, you have told me your story with so much confidence, thati owe you a little of mine. you must know, then, that my name is pierregringoire, and that i am a son of the farmer of the notary's office of gonesse.
my father was hung by the burgundians, andmy mother disembowelled by the picards, at the siege of paris, twenty years ago. at six years of age, therefore, i was anorphan, without a sole to my foot except the pavements of paris.i do not know how i passed the interval from six to sixteen. a fruit dealer gave me a plum here, a bakerflung me a crust there; in the evening i got myself taken up by the watch, who threwme into prison, and there i found a bundle of straw. all this did not prevent my growing up andgrowing thin, as you see.
in the winter i warmed myself in the sun,under the porch of the hotel de sens, and i thought it very ridiculous that the fire onsaint john's day was reserved for the dog days. at sixteen, i wished to choose a calling.i tried all in succession. i became a soldier; but i was not braveenough. i became a monk; but i was not sufficientlydevout; and then i'm a bad hand at drinking. in despair, i became an apprentice of thewoodcutters, but i was not strong enough; i had more of an inclination to become aschoolmaster; 'tis true that i did not know
how to read, but that's no reason. i perceived at the end of a certain time,that i lacked something in every direction; and seeing that i was good for nothing, ofmy own free will i became a poet and rhymester. that is a trade which one can always adoptwhen one is a vagabond, and it's better than stealing, as some young brigands of myacquaintance advised me to do. one day i met by luck, dom claude frollo,the reverend archdeacon of notre-dame. he took an interest in me, and it is to himthat i to-day owe it that i am a veritable man of letters, who knows latin from the deofficiis of cicero to the mortuology of the
celestine fathers, and a barbarian neither in scholastics, nor in politics, nor inrhythmics, that sophism of sophisms. i am the author of the mystery which waspresented to-day with great triumph and a great concourse of populace, in the grandhall of the palais de justice. i have also made a book which will containsix hundred pages, on the wonderful comet of 1465, which sent one man mad.i have enjoyed still other successes. being somewhat of an artillery carpenter,i lent a hand to jean mangue's great bombard, which burst, as you know, on the day whenit was tested, on the pont de charenton, and killed four and twenty curiousspectators.
you see that i am not a bad match inmarriage. i know a great many sorts of very engagingtricks, which i will teach your goat; for example, to mimic the bishop of paris, thatcursed pharisee whose mill wheels splash passers-by the whole length of the pont auxmeuniers. and then my mystery will bring me in agreat deal of coined money, if they will only pay me. and finally, i am at your orders, i and mywits, and my science and my letters, ready to live with you, damsel, as it shallplease you, chastely or joyously; husband and wife, if you see fit; brother andsister, if you think that better."
gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect ofhis harangue on the young girl. her eyes were fixed on the ground. "'phoebus,'" she said in a low voice.then, turning towards the poet, "'phoebus',--what does that mean?" gringoire, without exactly understandingwhat the connection could be between his address and this question, was not sorry todisplay his erudition. assuming an air of importance, he replied,-- "it is a latin word which means 'sun.'""sun!" she repeated. "it is the name of a handsome archer, whowas a god," added gringoire.
"a god!" repeated the gypsy, and there wassomething pensive and passionate in her tone. at that moment, one of her bracelets becameunfastened and fell. gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up;when he straightened up, the young girl and the goat had disappeared. he heard the sound of a bolt.it was a little door, communicating, no doubt, with a neighboring cell, which wasbeing fastened on the outside. "has she left me a bed, at least?" said ourphilosopher. he made the tour of his cell.
there was no piece of furniture adapted tosleeping purposes, except a tolerably long wooden coffer; and its cover was carved, toboot; which afforded gringoire, when he stretched himself out upon it, a sensation somewhat similar to that which micromegaswould feel if he were to lie down on the alps."come!" said he, adjusting himself as well as possible, "i must resign myself. but here's a strange nuptial night.'tis a pity. there was something innocent andantediluvian about that broken crock, which quite pleased me."
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