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Chapter V
The Broken Jug

After having run for some time at the top of his speed, without knowing where, our poet finally stopped.

He continued to advance at a slower pace. Soon he saw legless cripple in a bowl, who was hopping along on his two hands like a wounded field-spider which has but two legs left. At the moment when he passed close to this species of spider with a human countenance, it raised towards him a lamentable voice: “La buona mancia, signor! la buona mancia!⁶”

He overtook a man with crutches and wooden legs. This living tripod saluted him as he passed, but stopping his hat on a level with Gringoire’s chin, like a shaving dish, while he shouted in the latter’s ears: “Señor cabellero, para comprar un pedaso de pan!⁷”

For the third time something barred his way. This something or, rather, someone was a blind man, who droned through his nose with a Hungarian accent: “Facitote caritatem!”

“Well, now,” said Gringoire, “here’s one at last who speaks a Christian tongue. My friend,” and he turned towards the blind man, “I sold my last shirt last week.”

That said, he turned his back upon the blind man, and continued to walk. But then all three came up to him in great haste and began to sing their song to him.

Gringoire set out to run. The blind man ran! The lame man ran! The cripple in the bowl ran!

And then they swarmed about him, and men with one arm, and with one eye, and the leprous with their sores, some emerging from little adjacent streets, howling and bellowing. This whole legion had closed in behind him, and his three beggars held him fast.

Tehy reached the end of the street. It opened upon an immense place, with a thousand scattered lights. Gringoire continued walking, hoping to escape.

“Onde vas, hombre?” (Where are you going, my man?) cried the cripple, flinging away his crutches, and running after him.

In the meantime the legless man, erect upon his feet, crowned Gringoire with his heavy iron bowl.

“Where am I?” said the terrified poet.

“In the Court of Miracles,” replied a fourth spectre.

Cour des Miracles was a city of thieves, a hideous wart on the face of Paris; a sewer, from which escaped every morning, and whither returned every night to crouch, a stream of vices; a lying hospital where the ne’er-do-wells of all nations, beggars by day, were transformed by night into brigands.

It was a vast place, irregular and badly paved. Fires, around which swarmed strange groups, blazed here and there. Every one was going, coming, and shouting.

It was like a new world, unknown, unheard of, misshapen, creeping, swarming, fantastic.

At that moment, a distinct cry arose. “Let’s take him to the king! Let’s take him to the king!”

“To the king! to the king!” repeated all voices.

They dragged him off to the great fire.

Near the fire was a hogshead, and on the hogshead a beggar. This was the king on his throne.

The three who had Gringoire in their clutches led him in front of this hogshead, and the entire place fell silent for a moment.

Gringoire dared neither breathe nor raise his eyes.

The king addressed him, from the summit of his cask,—

“Who is this rogue?”

Gringoire shuddered. That voice made him recall to him another voice, which, that very morning, had dealt the deathblow to his mystery. He raised his head. It was indeed Clopin Trouillefou.

Gringoire, without knowing why, had regained some hope, on recognizing his accursed mendicant of the Grand Hall.

“Master,” stammered he; “monseigneur—sire—how ought I to address you?”

“Monseigneur, his majesty, or comrade, call me what you please. But make haste. What do you have to say in your own defence?”

“In your own defence?” thought Gringoire, “that displeases me.” He resumed, stuttering, “I am he, who this morning—”

“By the devil’s claws!” interrupted Clopin, “Listen. You have violated the privileges of our city. You must be punished unless you are a capon, a franc-mitou or a rifodé; that is to say, in the slang of honest folks,—a thief, a beggar, or a vagabond. Are you anything of that sort? Justify yourself; announce your titles.”

“Alas!” said Gringoire, “I have not that honor. I am the author—”

“That is sufficient,” resumed Trouillefou, without permitting him to finish. “You are going to be hanged. ’Tis a very simple matter, gentlemen and honest bourgeois! as you treat our people in your abode, so we treat you in ours! The law which you apply to vagabonds, vagabonds apply to you. ’Tis your fault if 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 Argot⁸?”

“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 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.

“You do not eat, Mademoiselle Esmeralda?”

She replied by a negative sign of the head.

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.

“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.

“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” 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.”

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

The gypsy began to caress Djali.

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

“She is my sister,” she answered.

“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.”

“At what age did you come to France?”

“When I was very young.”

“And when to Paris?”

“Last year.”

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.”

Girl’s eyes were fixed on the ground.

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

“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 door bolt.

“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.