Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 144 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 THE HUNCHBACK QF NOTRE-DAME, was sentenced a week ago to pay a fine of ten sous | eae his idea; but how did you get away from | or rhythmics, or even in hermatics, that sophia of al! Parisis for having carrieda short sword. But that is no business of mive, so to return to the point—I swear to you by my hopes of Parudise not to appreach you without your permission and consent; but, for Heaven's | Gringoire, seeking to return to his qu sake, give me some supper.”’ In reality Gringoire, like Despreaux, was not of a very | amorous temperament, He belonged not to that chiv- | alric and military class who take young damsels by | oe La Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and made no reply. “Do you know, why he followed about way. ‘‘T do not,” said the girl. ‘“‘ But,’’ added she, sharp- ly, “‘ you followed me, too; why did you follow me?” “In good sooth,” replied Gringoire, ‘‘I do not know assault. In love, as in all other affairs, he was for tem- | either.” porizing and pursuing middle courses ; and to him a) | rouP to cut the table. The damsel smiled and seemed | | to good supper, with an agreeable companion, appeared, especially when he was hungry, an excellent interlude between the prologue and the winding-up of a love ad- venture. The tian made no reply. She gave her disdain- ful pow. erected her head like a bird, atid burst into a loud laugh ; the pretty little dagger vanished as it had come, so that Gringoire could not discover where the bee concealed its sting. In a moment a loaf of rye bread, a slice of bacon, some wrinkled apples, -and ajug of beer, were set out upon the table. Gringoire fell to with such avidity, as if all his love had been changed into appetite. His hostess, seated before him, looked on in silence, visibly en- ed with some other thought, at which she smiled | fon time to time, while her soft hand stroked the head of the intelligent goat, closely pressed between her knees. A candle of yellow wax lighted this scene of voracity and reverie. | The first cravings of his stomach being appeased, Gringoire felt a degree of false shame on perceiving that there was only one apple left. “Do you not eat something, moiselle Esmeralda ?’’ said he. replied in the negative by a shake of the head, and | her pensive looks were fixed on the vaulted ceiling of the or. | el e devil can she be thinking of?” said Grin- goire, to himself, turhing his eyes in the same direc- tion as hers, ‘It is impossible that yon ugly head carved on the groining can thus engross her attention. Surely I may stand a comparison with that,”’ “ Mademoiselle,” he said, raising his voice, She ap- peared not to hear him. “ Mademoiselle Esmeralda !"’ e again began in astill louder tone, to just as little purpose. The spirit of the damsel was elsewhere, and the voice of Griugoire had not AB ee to recall it. Luckily for him the t interfered, and began to pull her latress gently by the sleeve. “What do you want, Djali?” said the Egyptian, sharply, starting like one awakened out of a sound sleep, “She is hungry,” said Gringoire, delighted at the opportunity of opering the conversation. Esmeralda began crumbling some bread, which Djali ¢ ly ate out of the hollow of her hand. e, without giving her time to resume her rev- tured upon a delicate qu mR. t have me for your husband?” said he. ~~ damsel looked at him intently for a moment, and replied,“ No!" “For your lover asked Gringoire ‘For your friend?” continued Gringoire. | i el “pon him. | "iS She ‘in *Ferhape,” said she, after a moment's reflection. ; aps, so dear to philosophers, emboldened .."Do you know what friendship is?’ he in- oui ba ,”’ replied the Egyptian; “it is to be as brother andsister; two souls which touch each other without tuniting, like two fingers of the same hand.” e “ And love ?”” proceeded Gringoire. ‘Ob! love!” said she, and her voice trembled, and her eye ‘kled. “Itisto be two and yet but one— itisa mat d a woman blending iuto an angel—it is heaven itself.” pips The street-dancer, ag she uttered these words, ap- | peared invested with a beauty which powerfully struck G oire, and seemed in perfect unison with the al- most Oriental exaggeration of her language. A faint smile res upon her pure and rosy lips; her bright and serene brow was now and then Non r®% moment, according to the turn of her) thoughts, as a mirror is by the breath ; and trom her jong, dark downcast eyelashes emanated a sort of in- € e light, which imparted to her profile that ideal suavity which Raphae) subsequently found as the en t of intersection of virginity, maternity, aud nity. pie nevertheless, proceeded: “And what should one be,”’ said he,’’ to please you!”’ “ ” ee t am I, then ?’’ “Aman has a helmet on his head, a sword in his fist, and gold spura at his heels.” a “So then, rejoined Gringorie, ‘without a horse one cannot bea man, Do you loveany one?” She remained pensive for a seomnt and then said with a peculiar kind of expression, ‘I shatl soon know that.” “ Why not me 2" replied the poet tenderly. She eyed him with a serious look. “Never can I love any man but one who is able to protect me.” Gringoire blushed and made sure that this stroke was aimed at hiin. It was evident that the girl was alluding to the little assistanee he had afforded her in the critical aituation in which she had found herself two hours before. At the recollection of this circum- stance which his own subsequent adventures had banished from his mind, he struck his forehead. “Indeed,” said he, “I ought to have begun with a aubfcat, orgive the ‘confusion of my ideas. ow clutches !" This tion made the -girl shudder. “Oh the noha bane’ k I’ as lackinoeth covering her or Bh her hands, and she shivered as from the effect of nse cold “Horrid, indeed!’ said She | ‘amulet in her bosom. “Then you | you contrive to escape from Quasimodo’s | Both were silent. Gringoire, took up his knife and ou ?” resumed , ion by a round-— itr I am the author of the mystery, that was per- formed to-day before a prodigious concourse of aon) @, with immense applause, in the great halls of the Palace of Justice. I have also written a book of six hundred. _ pages on the prodigious comet of 1465, which turned a é. looking at something through the wall. All at > | once she commenced singing in a voice scarcely articu- late : Quando las pintadas aves Mundas estan, y la tierra. i ; | } She then abruptly broke off and began to caress her | ali “That's a pretty creature of yonrs,” observed Grin- goire. "Tia my sister,” replied she. “Why are you called La Esmeralda?’ inquired the poet. ‘*T can't tell.” “No, sure?” : She drew from her bosom a small, oblong bag, at- tached to a necklace of small, red seeds, and emitting a very strong scent of camphor. reen silk, and in the middle of it there was 4 large ad of green glass in imitation of emerald. “ Perhaps it is on account of this,” said she. Gringoire extended his hand to lay hold of the bag, was a god, but she started back. “Don’t touch it,’ said she; “'tis an amulet. You might do an injury to the charm, or the charm to you.” : The curiosity of the poet was more and more ex- | dental cited. ‘“‘ Who gave you that?” he asked. She laid her finger upon her lips, and replaced t self tlie damsel and the goat were gone. : pe oo itt sound of a bolt ake He ventu questions, but could seareely obtain answers to them. ‘What is the meaning of La Esmeralda?” “] know not," said she. “To what language does the word belong?” “It ie Egyptian, I believe.” . “I thought. so,’’ said Gringoire. native of Pb “TI don’t know.” . * Are your parents living ?’’ She began singing the tune of an old song: My father's a bird, . And my mother's his mate; I pass the broad waters “You are not a Without boat or bait. “ How old were you when you came to France ?’ “IT was quite a child.” : ’ “ And to ad te, lsaw the yellowhammers fiying in a line rheads, It was then the end of August, and I : ‘We shall have asharp Winter.’"” And so we have," said a hted with this conimencement of con ion; *‘I have done Sothiniy but blow my fingers since it set in. Why, then, you possess the gift op cee ter , No,” replicd she, relapsing into her laconie man- mer. m “The man whont you call the Duke of Egypt is the chief of your tribe, | presume?” — . “and yet it was he who married us,” timidly ob- served the poet. ‘ Her Jips exhibited the accustomed pout. ‘I don't even know your name,” said she. My nanie, if you wish to know it, is Pierre Grin- ire.’ “I know a much finer,”’ said she. “How unkind!" replied the poet. you shall not make me angry. You will, perhaps love me when you are better acquainted with me and you have related your history to me with such candor that I cannot withhold mine from you. “You must know,-then, that my name is Pierre Gringoire, and that my father held the situation of notary at Gonésse, He was hanged by the Burgun- dians, and my mother was murdered by the Picards, at the seige of Paris twenty years ago; 80, at six te ste, 1 At the moment we were entering the oO “Never mind years old I was left an orphan with no other sole to my foot but the pavement of Paris. I know not howl passed the interval between six and sixteen. Here, a fruitwoman gave me an apple or a plum; there, a baker tossed me a. crust of bread; at night I threw myself in the way of the watch, who ed me up apd put me in son, where I fo a a bundle of straw. In spite of this kind of life I grew tall and slim,as you see. In Winter I ae oe myself in the sunshine, under the porch of the f of Sens, and I thonght it very absurd that the bon- fires of St. John should be deferred nearly to the dog- days. Atesixteen I began to think of adopting @ pro- fession, and I shoogeatrely tried my hand at every- iny. I turned a soldier but was uot. enough; I became a monk, but was not devout enough, and sides I could not drink hard enough. In despair I ap- prenticed myself to a carpenter, but was not rina enough, I bad a much Peetes fancy to become a school- master; true, I had not learned read, but what of that, owing’ to is a profession to that? After some time I discoy some deficiency or other, I was therefore,set up for a poct a which a man who is a yayabond may always betake himeelf, and it is en qe a prot gs Pusu Atay ues of my acquaintance me o. One } us luck wontd have it, [met with Dom Claude Frollo, the reverend arcideacon ot Notre-Dame, who took a king to me, and to him I owe it that I am this a Gringoire, without viiie- ‘Jearved man, Dot uupracticed in scbolastics, poetics, The outside was | ag ed S displaying his erudition, word,” | | | : man's brain, and have distinguished myself in other ways. Being somewhat of an artillery Carper:ter, I as- sisted in making that bombard, which, you know, burst at the bridge of Charenton, on the day that it was tried, and killed twenty-four ot the spectators. So you see I am no bad match, J know a great many curious tricks, WhichI will teach your goat, for instance, to mimic the Bishop of Paris, that cursed Pharisee, whose tills splash the passengers all along the Pont aux Meuniers. And then my mystery will bring mein a good deal of hard cash, ifI can get paid for it, In short, I am wholly at your service, damsel. My conscience and my learning shall be devoted to you. 1 am ready to live with you in any way you please ; as husband and wife, if you think proper, as brother and sister, if you like better,”’ . ; Gringoire paused, waiting the effect of his address om his hearer. Her eyes were fixed on ground. “Phebus,’’ said she in an undertone, and then turn- ing to the poet : ‘* Phoebus, what does that mean ? ”’ Gringoire, though unable to discover what .connec- tion there could be between the subject of his speech and this question, was not, displeased to have an op- c ‘It is a Latin sai he, and means the sun.”’ — “The sun!’ she exclaimed, “It is the name of acertain handsome archer, who. * added Gringesrs. “A god!"r ted the Fey tian, and there was in her tone something pensive impassioned, At this mement one of her bracelets havin become loose, fell tothe ground. Gringoire instantly stooped to pick it up; when he raised Tin. . He heard the upon a door communicating, no doubt, with an adjoining ceil, which fastened on the inside. “No matter, so she has left mea bed ?”’ said our phi)- osopher. Hé explored the cell. It contained not any piece of furniture fit to lie down upon, excepting a long coffer, and the lid of this was carved in such a manner as to communicate to Gringoire, when he stretched himself upon it, a sensation similar to that experienced by Micromegas when he lay at tull length upon the Alp dhe, accommodating himself to this un- acci- 8. or ene comfortable couch as well as he could, “ ’tis of no use any sis ae t mble. But at any rate ding -~ pe by mble a , this wedding BOOK II. NOTRE-DAME. i Tre Church of Notre Dame at Paris is no doubt still a sublime and majestic edifice: But, notwithstanding the beauty which it has retained even in old age, one cannot help feeling grief and in on at the nuimberless injuries and mutilations which time and man mans nee a yeangpetin structure, regard- vss O arlemagne w é first stone of it anSip paqanne yas pats ye last. a n the face o 8 aged queen of our cath 6 always find a scar beside a wrinkle. Tempus ez, hom edacior—which I should translate thus: Time is blind It me i t we eisure to examine with the readér, one b one, the different traces of destruction left saan. tbe ancient church, we should find that Time had had much less hand in them than men and especially professional men, . hee In the first place, to adduce only some equited exam - ples, there are assu lew more auiod specimens of architecture than tha where porchee with their ted arches ; t embroidered and fretted with twenty-eight royal niches; the immense central mullioned window, flanked by . two lateral windows, } the priest by the deacon and the sub- supporting a heavy platform upon its slender pillurs - lastly, the two dark and massive towers with their K | uses—harmonious 8 Of a magnificent whole, placed one above another in five Meant sans —present themselves to the eye in a crowd yet without. contusion, with their innumerable details of statuary sculpture, and carving, powerfully contributing to the tranquil grandeur of the whole—a yast symphony of stone, if we may be allowed the expression ; the colos- product of the combination of all the force of the age, in which the fancy of the workm e 7 of the artist, is seen starting dre ms Upon every stone ; in short, a sort of human creation, mighty and fertile like the divine creation from which it seems to have borrowed the twofold os ge ao an 7: eternity. — at we here say of the f é must be sa whole church; and what we say of the eliipaes Paris must be said of all the churches of Christeudor: in the Middle Ages. But to return tothe facade «* Notre-Dame, such as it appears tous at present, whe we piously repair thither to the solemn anw sore et which, to use t chron - spectator. y its vastuess struck terror into the he facade, as we now see it, bas lost three impor- sine vies ! > pent mee ae of siiven ‘ raise evel o ; the next; the lower sige © Called ‘the { statues | niches of the porches, wad @rtoe r ~~ eae Pa et p barge gb en then nce adorned the gallery ef the first story, commencing in a hun- Ghboo le (: > a <i" chastened by | language of the * a - i ee Re ee ee os | Gite | ; ee _