The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Виктор Мари Гюго

pleasure of making a grimace at that ungrateful populace. “But no, that would not be worthy of us; no, vengeance! let us combat until the end,” he repeated to himself; “the power of poetry over people is great; I will bring them back. We shall see which will carry the day, grimaces or polite literature.”

      Alas! he had been left the sole spectator of his piece. It was far worse than it had been a little while before. He no longer beheld anything but backs.

      I am mistaken. The big, patient man, whom he had already consulted in a critical moment, had remained with his face turned towards the stage. As for Gisquette and Liénarde, they had deserted him long ago.

      Gringoire was touched to the heart by the fidelity of his only spectator. He approached him and addressed him, shaking his arm slightly; for the good man was leaning on the balustrade and dozing a little.

      “Monsieur,” said Gringoire, “I thank you!”

      “Monsieur,” replied the big man with a yawn, “for what?”

      “I see what wearies you,” resumed the poet; “’tis all this noise which prevents your hearing comfortably. But be at ease! your name shall descend to posterity! Your name, if you please?”

      “Renauld Chateau, guardian of the seals of the Châtelet of Paris, at your service.”

      “Monsieur, you are the only representative of the muses here,” said Gringoire.

      “You are too kind, sir,” said the guardian of the seals at the Châtelet.

      “You are the only one,” resumed Gringoire, “who has listened to the piece decorously. What do you think of it?”

      “He! he!” replied the fat magistrate, half aroused, “it’s tolerably jolly, that’s a fact.”

      Gringoire was forced to content himself with this eulogy; for a thunder of applause, mingled with a prodigious acclamation, cut their conversation short. The Pope of the Fools had been elected.

“Noel! Noel! Noel!”* shouted the people on all sides. That was, in fact, a marvellous grimace which was beaming at that moment through the aperture in the rose window. After all the pentagonal, hexagonal, and whimsical faces, which had succeeded each other at that hole without realizing the ideal of the grotesque which their imaginations, excited by the orgy, had constructed, nothing less was needed to win their suffrages than the sublime grimace which had just dazzled the assembly. Master Coppenole himself applauded, and Clopin Trouillefou, who had been among the competitors (and God knows what intensity of ugliness his visage could attain), confessed himself conquered: We will do the same. We shall not try to give the reader an idea of that tetrahedral nose, that horseshoe mouth; that little left eye obstructed with a red, bushy, bristling eyebrow, while the right eye disappeared entirely beneath an enormous wart; of those teeth in disarray, broken here and there, like the embattled parapet of a fortress; of that callous lip, upon which one of these teeth encroached, like the tusk of an elephant; of that forked chin; and above all, of the expression spread over the whole; of that mixture of malice, amazement, and sadness. Let the reader dream of this whole, if he can.

      The acclamation was unanimous; people rushed towards the chapel. They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest pitch; the grimace was his face.

      Or rather, his whole person was a grimace. A huge head, bristling with red hair; between his shoulders an enormous hump, a counterpart perceptible in front; a system of thighs and legs so strangely astray that they could touch each other only at the knees, and, viewed from the front, resembled the crescents of two scythes joined by the handles; large feet, monstrous hands; and, with all this deformity, an indescribable and redoubtable air of vigor, agility, and courage, strange exception to the eternal rule which wills that force as well as beauty shall be the result of harmony. Such was the pope whom the fools had just chosen for themselves.

      One would have pronounced him a giant who had been broken and badly put together again.

      When this species of cyclops appeared on the threshold of the chapel, motionless, squat, and almost as broad as he was tall; squared on the base, as a great man says; with his doublet half red, half violet, sown with silver bells, and, above all, in the perfection of his ugliness, the populace recognized him on the instant, and shouted with one voice,

      “’Tis Quasimodo, the bellringer! ’tis Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre-Dame! Quasimodo, the one-eyed! Quasimodo, the bandy-legged! Noel! Noel!”

      It will be seen that the poor fellow had a choice of surnames.

      “Let the women with child beware!” shouted the scholars.

      “Or those who wish to be,” resumed Joannes.

      The women did, in fact, hide their faces.

      “Oh! the horrible monkey!” said one of them.

      “As wicked as he is ugly,” retorted another.

      “He’s the devil,” added a third.

      “I have the misfortune to live near Notre-Dame; I hear him prowling round the eaves by night.”

      “With the cats.”

      “He’s always on our roofs.”

      “He throws spells down our chimneys.”

      “The other evening, he came and made a grimace at me through my attic window. I thought that it was a man. Such a fright as I had!”

      “I’m sure that he goes to the witches’ sabbath. Once he left a broom on my leads.”

      “Oh! what a displeasing hunchback’s face!”

      “Oh! what an ill-favored soul!”

      “Whew!”

      The men, on the contrary, were delighted and applauded. Quasimodo, the object of the tumult, still stood on the threshold of the chapel, somber and grave, and allowed them to admire him.

      One scholar (Robin Poussepain, I think), came and laughed in his face, and too close. Quasimodo contented himself with taking him by the girdle, and hurling him ten paces off amid the crowd; all without uttering a word.

      Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.

      “Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope at Rome, as well as at Paris.”

      So saying, he placed his hand gayly on his shoulder. Quasimodo did not stir. Coppenole went on,

      “You are a rogue with whom I have a fancy for carousing, were it to cost me a new dozen of twelve livres of Tours. How does it strike you?”

      Quasimodo made no reply.

      “Cross of God!” said the hosier, “are you deaf?”

      He was, in truth, deaf.

      Nevertheless, he began to grow impatient with Coppenole’s behavior, and suddenly turned towards him with so formidable a gnashing of teeth, that the Flemish giant recoiled, like a bull-dog before a cat.

      Then there was created around that strange personage, a circle of terror and respect, whose radius was at least fifteen geometrical feet. An old woman explained to Coppenole that Quasimodo was deaf.

      “Deaf!” said the hosier, with his great Flemish laugh. “Cross of God! He’s a perfect pope!”

      “He! I recognize him,” exclaimed Jehan, who had, at last, descended from his capital, in order to see Quasimodo at closer quarters, “he’s the bellringer of my brother, the archdeacon. Good-day, Quasimodo!”

      “What a devil of a man!” said Robin Poussepain still all bruised with his fall. “He shows himself; he’s a hunchback. He walks; he’s bandy-legged. He looks at you; he’s one-eyed. You speak to him; he’s deaf. And what does this Polyphemus do with