Chapter VII: A Bridal Night

A few moments later our poet found himself in a tiny arched
chamber, very cosy, very warm, seated at a table which appeared
to ask nothing better than to make some loans from a larder
hanging near by, having a good bed in prospect, and alone with a
pretty girl. The adventure smacked of enchantment. He began
seriously to take himself for a personage in a fairy tale; he
cast his eyes about him from time to time to time, as though to
see if the chariot of fire, harnessed to two-winged chimeras,
which alone could have so rapidly transported him from Tartarus
to Paradise, were still there. At times, also, he fixed his eyes
obstinately upon the holes in his doublet, in order to cling to
reality, and not lose the ground from under his feet completely.
His reason, tossed about in imaginary space, now hung only by
this thread.

The young girl did not appear to pay any attention to him; she
went and came, displaced a stool, talked to her goat, and
indulged in a pout now and then. At last she came and seated
herself near the table, and Gringoire was able to scrutinize her
at his ease.

You have been a child, reader, and you would, perhaps, be very
happy to be one still. It is quite certain that you have not,
more than 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 curiosity your thought and your gaze were
riveted upon this little whirlwind, hissing and humming with
wings of purple and azure, in the midst of which floated an
imperceptible body, veiled by the very rapidity of its movement.
The aerial being which was dimly outlined amid this quivering of
wings, appeared to you chimerical, imaginary, impossible to
touch, impossible to see. But when, at length, the dragon-fly
alighted on the tip of a reed, and, holding your breath the
while, you were able to examine the long, gauze wings, the long
enamel robe, the two globes of crystal, what astonishment you
felt, and what fear lest you should again behold the form
disappear into a shade, and the creature into a chimera! Recall
these impressions, and you will readily appreciate what Gringoire
felt on contemplating, beneath her visible and palpable form,
that Esmeralda of whom, up to that time, he had only caught a
glimpse, amidst a whirlwind of dance, song, and tumult.

Sinking deeper and deeper into his revery: “So this,” he said to
himself, following her vaguely with his eyes, “is _la Esmeralda!_
a celestial creature! a street dancer! so much, and so little!
’Twas she who dealt the death-blow to my mystery this morning,
’tis she who saves my life this evening! My evil genius! My good
angel! A pretty woman, on my word! and who must needs love me
madly to have taken me in that fashion. By the way,” said he,
rising suddenly, with that sentiment of the true which formed the
foundation of his character and his philosophy, “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 drew
back.

“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 it on
hearing himself speak.

The gypsy opened her great eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“What!” resumed Gringoire, growing warmer and warmer, and
supposing that, after all, he had to deal merely with a virtue of
the Cour des Miracles; “am I not thine, sweet friend, art thou
not mine?”

And, quite ingenuously, he clasped her waist.

The gypsy’s corsage slipped through his hands like the skin of an
eel. She bounded from one end of the tiny room to the other,
stooped down, and raised herself again, with a little poniard in
her hand, before Gringoire had even had time to see whence the
poniard came; proud and angry, with swelling lips and inflated
nostrils, her cheeks as red as an api apple,[15] and her eyes
darting lightnings. At the same time, the white goat placed
itself in front of her, and presented to Gringoire a hostile
front, bristling with two pretty horns, gilded and very sharp.
All this took place in the twinkling of an eye.

The dragon-fly had turned into a wasp, and asked nothing better
than to sting.

Our philosopher was speechless, and turned his astonished eyes
from the goat to the young girl. “Holy Virgin!” he said at last,
when surprise 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 disappointed in his amorous hopes.
“You had no other idea in marrying me than to save me from the
gibbet?”

“And what other idea did you suppose that I had?”

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 breaking that poor jug?”

Meanwhile Esmeralda’s dagger and the goat’s horns 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 shall not go to law with you
for thus carrying a dagger in Paris, in the teeth of the
ordinances and prohibitions of M. the Provost. Nevertheless, you
are not ignorant of the fact that Noël Lescrivain was condemned,
a week ago, to pay ten Parisian sous, for having carried a
cutlass. But this is no affair of mine, and I will come 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 and musketeer
species, who take young girls by assault. In the matter of love,
as in all other affairs, he willingly assented to temporizing and
adjusting terms; and a good supper, and an amiable tête-à-tête
appeared to him, especially when he was hungry, an excellent
interlude between the prologue and 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 poniard disappeared as it had come, without Gringoire being
able to see where the wasp concealed its sting.

A moment later, there stood upon the table a 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 his earthenware plate, that all his
love had turned to appetite.

The young girl seated opposite him, watched him in silence,
visibly preoccupied with another thought, at which she smiled
from time to time, while her soft hand caressed the intelligent
head of the goat, gently pressed between her knees.

A candle of yellow wax illuminated this scene of voracity and
revery.

Meanwhile, the first cravings of his stomach having been stilled,
Gringoire felt some false shame at perceiving that nothing
remained 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 be that
stone dwarf carved in the keystone of that arch, which thus
absorbs her attention. 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, and
Gringoire’s voice had not the power to recall it. Fortunately,
the goat interfered. She began to pull her mistress gently by the
sleeve.

“What dost thou want, Djali?” said the gypsy, hastily, as though
suddenly awakened.

“She is hungry,” said Gringoire, charmed to enter into
conversation. Esmeralda began to crumble some bread, which Djali
ate gracefully from the hollow of her hand.

Moreover, Gringoire did not give her time to resume her revery.
He hazarded a delicate question.

“So you don’t want me for your husband?”

The young girl looked at him intently, and said, “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 be brother and sister; two
souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.”

“And love?” pursued Gringoire.

“Oh! love!” said she, and her voice trembled, 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 spoke thus, that struck
Gringoire singularly, and seemed to him in perfect keeping with
the almost oriental exaltation of her words. Her pure, red lips
half smiled; her serene and candid brow became troubled, at
intervals, under her thoughts, like a mirror under the breath;
and from beneath her long, drooping, black eyelashes, there
escaped a sort of ineffable light, which gave to her profile that
ideal serenity which Raphael found at the mystic point of
intersection 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 helmet on his head, a sword in his 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, then said with a peculiar
expression: “That I shall know soon.”

“Why not this evening?” resumed the poet tenderly. “Why not me?”

She cast a grave glance upon him and said,—

“I can never love a man who cannot protect me.”

Gringoire colored, and took the hint. It was evident that the
young girl was alluding to the slight assistance which he had
rendered her in the critical situation in which she had found
herself two hours previously. This memory, effaced by his own
adventures of 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 violent cold.

“Horrible, in truth,” said Gringoire, who clung 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?” began Gringoire again, seeking
to return to his question by a circuitous route.

“I don’t know,” said the young girl, and she 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 be gazing through the wall at
something. All at once she began to sing in a barely articulate
voice,—

Quando las pintadas aves,
Mudas estan, y la tierra—[16]

She broke off abruptly, and began to caress Djali.

“That’s a pretty animal of yours,” said Gringoire.

“She is my sister,” she answered.

“Why are you called _la Esmeralda?_” asked the poet.

“I do not know.”

“But why?”

She drew from her bosom a sort of little oblong bag, suspended
from her neck by a string of adrézarach beads. This bag exhaled a
strong odor of camphor. It was covered with green silk, and bore
in its 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 the bag in his hand. She
drew back.

“Don’t touch it! It is an amulet. You would injure the charm or
the charm would injure you.”

The poet’s curiosity was more and more aroused.

“Who gave it to you?”

She laid one finger on her mouth and concealed the amulet in her
bosom. He tried a few more questions, but she hardly replied.

“What is the meaning of the words, _la Esmeralda?_”

“I don’t know,” said she.

“To what language do they belong?”

“They are Egyptian, I think.”

“I suspected as much,” said Gringoire, “you are not a native of
France?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are your parents alive?”

She began to sing, to an ancient air,—

Mon père est oiseau,
Ma mère est oiselle.
Je passe l’eau sans nacelle,
Je passe l’eau sans bateau,
Ma mère est oiselle,
Mon père est oiseau.[17]

“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 the papal gate I
saw a reed warbler flit through the air, that was at the end of
August; I said, it will be a hard winter.”

“So it was,” said Gringoire, delighted at this 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 of Egypt, 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 when you know me
better; and then, you have told me your story with so much
confidence, that I owe you a little of mine. You must know, then,
that my name is Pierre Gringoire, and that I am a son of the
farmer of the notary’s office of Gonesse. My father was hung by
the Burgundians, and my mother disembowelled by the Picards, at
the siege of Paris, twenty years ago. At six years of age,
therefore, I was an orphan, 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 baker flung
me a crust there; in the evening I got myself taken up by the
watch, who threw me into prison, and there I found a bundle of
straw. All this did not prevent my growing up and growing thin,
as you see. In the winter I warmed myself in the sun, under the
porch of the Hôtel de Sens, and I thought it very ridiculous that
the fire on Saint 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 brave enough. I became a monk;
but I was not sufficiently devout; and then I’m a bad hand at
drinking. In despair, I became an apprentice of the woodcutters,
but I was not strong enough; I had more of an inclination to
become a schoolmaster; ’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, of my own free will I became a poet and
rhymester. That is a trade which one can always adopt when one is
a vagabond, and it’s better than stealing, as some young brigands
of my acquaintance 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 him that I to-day owe it that I am a
veritable man of letters, who knows Latin from the _de Officiis_
of Cicero to the mortuology of the Celestine Fathers, and a
barbarian neither in scholastics, nor in politics, nor in
rhythmics, that sophism of sophisms. I am the author of the
Mystery which was presented to-day with great triumph and a great
concourse of populace, in the grand hall of the Palais de
Justice. I have also made a book which will contain six 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 when it was tested,
on the Pont de Charenton, and killed four and twenty curious
spectators. You see that I am not a bad match in marriage. I know
a great many sorts of very engaging tricks, which I will teach
your goat; for example, to mimic the Bishop of Paris, that cursed
Pharisee whose mill wheels splash passers-by the whole length of
the Pont aux Meuniers. And then my mystery will bring me in a
great deal of coined money, if they will only pay me. And
finally, I am at your orders, I and my wits, and my science and
my letters, ready to live with you, damsel, as it shall please
you, chastely or joyously; husband and wife, if you see fit;
brother and sister, if you think that better.”

Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of his harangue on the
young girl. Her eyes were fixed on the ground.

“_Phœbus,_” she said in a low voice. Then, turning towards the
poet, “_Phœbus_,—what does that mean?”

Gringoire, without exactly understanding what the connection
could be between his address and this question, was not sorry to
display 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, who was a god,” added
Gringoire.

“A god!” repeated the gypsy, and there was something pensive and
passionate in her tone.

At that moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened 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 was being fastened on the outside.

“Has she left me a bed, at least?” said our philosopher.

He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture
adapted to sleeping purposes, except a tolerably long wooden
coffer; and its cover was carved, to boot; which afforded
Gringoire, when he stretched himself out upon it, a sensation
somewhat similar to that which Micromégas would 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 and antediluvian about that broken
crock, which quite pleased me.”

BOOK THIRD.