Chapter VI: Esmeralda

We are delighted to be able to inform the reader, that during the
whole of this scene, Gringoire and his piece had stood firm. His
actors, spurred on by him, had not ceased to spout his comedy,
and he had not ceased to listen to it. He had made up his mind
about the tumult, and was determined to proceed to the end, not
giving up the hope of a return of attention on the part of the
public. This gleam of hope acquired fresh life, when he saw
Quasimodo, Coppenole, and the deafening escort of the pope of the
procession of fools quit the hall amid great uproar. The throng
rushed eagerly after them. “Good,” he said to himself, “there go
all the mischief-makers.” Unfortunately, all the mischief-makers
constituted the entire audience. In the twinkling of an eye, the
grand hall was empty.

To tell the truth, a few spectators still remained, some
scattered, others in groups around the pillars, women, old men,
or children, who had had enough of the uproar and tumult. Some
scholars were still perched astride of the window-sills, engaged
in gazing into the Place.

“Well,” thought Gringoire, “here are still as many as are
required to hear the end of my mystery. They are few in number,
but it is a choice audience, a lettered audience.”

An instant later, a symphony which had been intended to produce
the greatest effect on the arrival of the Virgin, was lacking.
Gringoire perceived that his music had been carried off by the
procession of the Pope of the Fools. “Skip it,” said he,
stoically.

He approached a group of _bourgeois_, who seemed to him to be
discussing his piece. This is the fragment of conversation which
he caught,—

“You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hôtel de Navarre, which belonged
to Monsieur de Nemours?”

“Yes, opposite the Chapelle de Braque.”

“Well, the treasury has just let it to Guillaume Alixandre,
historian, for six livres, eight sols, parisian, a year.”

“How rents are going up!”

“Come,” said Gringoire to himself, with a sigh, “the others are
listening.”

“Comrades,” suddenly shouted one of the young scamps from the
window, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda in the Place!”

This word produced a magical effect. Every one who was left in
the hall flew to the windows, climbing the walls in order to see,
and repeating, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda?” At the same time, a
great sound of applause was heard from without.

“What’s the meaning of this, of the Esmeralda?” said Gringoire,
wringing his hands in despair. “Ah, good heavens! it seems to be
the turn of the windows now.”

He returned towards the marble table, and saw that the
representation had been interrupted. It was precisely at the
instant when Jupiter should have appeared with his thunder. But
Jupiter was standing motionless at the foot of the stage.

“Michel Giborne!” cried the irritated poet, “what are you doing
there? Is that your part? Come up!”

“Alas!” said Jupiter, “a scholar has just seized the ladder.”

Gringoire looked. It was but too true. All communication between
his plot and its solution was intercepted.

“The rascal,” he murmured. “And why did he take that ladder?”

“In order to go and see the Esmeralda,” replied Jupiter
piteously. “He said, ‘Come, here’s a ladder that’s of no use!’
and he took it.”

This was the last blow. Gringoire received it with resignation.

“May the devil fly away with you!” he said to the comedian, “and
if I get my pay, you shall receive yours.”

Then he beat a retreat, with drooping head, but the last in the
field, like a general who has fought well.

And as he descended the winding stairs of the courts: “A fine
rabble of asses and dolts these Parisians!” he muttered between
his teeth; “they come to hear a mystery and don’t listen to it at
all! They are engrossed by every one, by Clopin Trouillefou, by
the cardinal, by Coppenole, by Quasimodo, by the devil! but by
Madame the Virgin Mary, not at all. If I had known, I’d have
given you Virgin Mary; you ninnies! And I! to come to see faces
and behold only backs! to be a poet, and to reap the success of
an apothecary! It is true that Homerus begged through the Greek
towns, and that Naso died in exile among the Muscovites. But may
the devil flay me if I understand what they mean with their
Esmeralda! What is that word, in the first place?—’tis Egyptian!”

BOOK SECOND.