Собор Парижской богоматери / Notre-Dame de Paris. Виктор Мари Гюго

it is harsh.”

      “Messeigneurs, emperors, and kings,” said Gringoire coolly, “don’t think of such a thing; my name is Pierre Gringoire. I am the poet whose morality was presented this morning in the grand hall of the Courts.”

      “Ah! so it was you, master!” said Clopin. “I was there, par la tête Dieu! Well! comrade, is that any reason, because you bored us to death this morning, that you should not be hung this evening?”

      “I shall find difficulty in getting out of it,” said Gringoire to himself. Nevertheless, he made one more effort: “I don’t see why poets are not classed with vagabonds,” said he. “Vagabond, Aesopus certainly was; Homerus was a beggar; Mercurius was a thief—”

      Clopin interrupted him: “I believe that you are trying to blarney us with your jargon. Zounds! let yourself be hung, and don’t kick up such a row over it!”

      “Pardon me, monseigneur, the King of Thunes,” replied Gringoire. “It is worth trouble—One moment!—Listen to me—You are not going to condemn me without having heard me—”

      His voice was drowned in the uproar which rose around him.

      In the meantime, Clopin Trouillefou appeared to hold a momentary conference with the Duke of Egypt, and the Emperor of Galilee. After a while, he turned to Gringoire.

      “Listen,” said he; “I don’t see why you should not be hung. It is true that it appears to be repugnant to you; and it is very natural, for you bourgeois are not accustomed to it. After all, we don’t wish you any harm. Will you become one of us?”

      “Certainly I will,” said Gringoire

      “Do you consent,” resumed Clopin, “to enroll yourself among the people of the knife?”

      “Of the knife, precisely,” responded Gringoire.

      “You recognize yourself as a member of the free bourgeoisie?” added the King of Thunes.

      “Of the free bourgeoisie.”

      “Subject of the Kingdom of Argot[8]?”

      “Of the Kingdom of Argot.”

      “A vagabond?”

      “A vagabond.”

      “In your soul?”

      “In my soul.”

      “I must call your attention to the fact,” continued the king, “that you will be hung all the same.”

      “The devil!” said the poet.

      “Only,” continued Clopin imperturbably, “you will be hung later on, with more ceremony, at the expense of the good city of Paris, on a handsome stone gibbet, and by honest men. That is a consolation.”

      “Just so,” responded Gringoire.

      Clopin made a sign. Several thieves brought two thick posts connected with a beam at the top. A rope was swinigng gracefully over the beam.

      “What are they going to do?” Gringoire asked himself with some uneasiness. A sound of bells, which he heard at that moment, put an end to his anxiety; it was a stuffed manikin, which the vagabonds were suspending by the neck from the rope, hung with bells. Clopin, pointing out to Gringoire a rickety old stool placed beneath the manikin,—“Climb up there.”

      “Death of the devil!” objected Gringoire; “I shall break my neck.”

      “Climb!” repeated Clopin.

      Gringoire mounted the stool, and succeeded.

      “Now,” went on the King of Thunes, “twist your right foot round your left leg, and rise on the tip of your left foot. You are to rise on tiptoe, as I tell you; reach the pocket of the manikin and pull out the purse that is there,—and if you do all this without our hearing the sound of a bell, all is well: you shall be a vagabond.”

      “And if the bells makes a sound?”

      “Then you will be hanged.”

      “And if there should come a gust of wind?”

      “You will be hanged.”

      Gringoire raised himself on his left foot, and stretched out his arm: but at the moment when his hand touched the manikin, he lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground.

      “Pick him up and hang him without ceremony.” said Clopin.

      At that moment a cry arose among the thieves: “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda!”

      The crowd opened, and gave passage to a pure and dazzling form.

      It was the gypsy.

      “La Esmeralda!” said Gringoire.

      She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her.

      “You are going to hang this man?” she said gravely, to Clopin.

      “Yes, sister,” replied the King of Thunes, “unless you will take him for your husband.”

      “I’ll take him,” said she.

      Gringoire firmly believed that he had been in a dream ever since morning, and that this was the continuation of it.

      The Duke of Egypt brought an earthenware crock, without uttering a word. The gypsy offered it to Gringoire: “Fling it on the ground,” said she.

      The crock broke into four pieces.

      “Brother,” then said the Duke of Egypt, laying his hands upon their foreheads, “she is your wife; sister, he is your husband for four years. Go.”

      Chapter VI

      A Bridal Night

      A few moments later our poet found himself in a tiny arched chamber, very cosy, very warm, and alone with a pretty girl. The adventure smacked of enchantment.

      The young girl did not appear to pay any attention to him. At last she came and seated herself near the table.

      “So this,” he said to himself, “is la Esmeralda! a street dancer!”

      He stepped up to the young girl. She drew back.

      “What do you want of me?” said she.

      “Can you ask me, adorable Esmeralda?” replied Gringoire.

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

      “What!” resumed Gringoire; “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. At the same time, the white goat placed itself in front of her, bristling with two pretty horns, gilded and very sharp.

      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.

      “Mademoiselle Esmeralda,” said the poet, “let us come to terms. 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 gypsy did not reply. She drew up her head like a bird, then burst out laughing. 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.

      The young girl

8

Kingdom of Argot – воры