Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 144 — page 35: what you’re looking at

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>) af THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE-DAME. 35 and beauty—to think of*that delicious form till you ; ful things. The pretty little embroidered shoe then writhe for whole nights on the floor of your cell, and to see the endearments which you have reserved for | cessantly racking the neart of the mother. the same fiber that vibrates—the deepest and the most herin imagination end in torture—these, these are pincers heated in the fire of hell! Happy in compari- son is he who is sawn asunder between two planks, or quartered by horses ! wien, during the long nights, your arteries boil, your heart is bursting, your head splitting, uud your teeth tear your own flesh; when you are turned incessantly as upon ared-hot gridiron by those inexorable torment- ors, loye, jealousy, despair! Mercy, maiden! relax for a moment; or, ifit must be so, torture me with one hand, but fondle me with the other. Have pity on me, girl! have pity on me!” The priest rolled in the water on the floor, and dashed his head against the stone steps of the dungeon. The Egyptian listened to him, looked at him. When he ceased speaking, breathless and exhausted, she repeated _ in alow tone: “Oh my Phebus!”’. The priest crawled toward her upon his knees. “I repulse me not. LIlove thee—I am miserable. When thou utterest that name, itis asif thou wert rending all the fibres of my heart. Only have pity. If thougo- est to perdition, I must go with thee. All that I have ‘done, I have done for this. The place where thou art wilt be to me a paradiae; the 7 tofthee is more en- trancing than that of heaven. have me? I should have thought that the day when a woman could reject such love the mountains would dissolve. Oh! if thou wouldst, how happy might we yet be! We would flee—I would enable thee to escape —we would seek that spot where there are the most trees, the most sunshine, the most azure sky.” She interrupted him with a loud, thrilling laugh. ‘* Look father, you have blood upon your fingers!” The priest, motionless for some moments, as if petri- fied, looked steadfastly at his hand. “Why, yes,” he at length replied with unwonted mildness, “abuse me, jeer me, overwhelm me—but come, come! Let us lose no time. It will be to-mor- row, I tell thee. The gibbet of the Greye—thon know- est the gibbet—it is always ready. It is horrible—to see thee drawn in that cart! Oh, mercy, mercy! Never did I feel as at this moment how dearly I love thee! Ob! come along wifhme. Thou shalttake thine own time to love me after I have saved thee. Thou shalt nie me as long as thou wilt. Onlycome. To-morrow! to-morrow! the gallows! me!’’ | In a state approaching to madness, he seized herarm, and would have burried her along. She fixed her eyes intently tipon him. What is become of my Phebus?” she inquired, | “Ah!” said the priest, loosing her arm from his grasp. “you have no pity!” . ‘* What is become of Pheebus ?” repeated she, coldly. “ He is dead,” replied the priest. “Dead !” said she, still.cold and passionless; “‘ then why pers me to live ?”’ . . * He heard her not. “Oh yes!” said he, as if talking to himself, “he must be dead. Istruck home. The point must have reached his heart.” The girl rushed upon him like an enraged tigress, and thrust him ‘toward the steps with supernatural force: “ ne, monster! begone, murderer! leave me to die! May the blood of us both mark thy brow with an everlasting stain. Be thine, priest? Never! never! Nothing shall bring us together, not even hell itself. A t, aécursed |! hia . ; priest hal stumbled upon the steps. Silently dis ng his feet from the skirts of his cassock, he up his lantern and began slowly Ay ascend to he door; he it and went 1 . The prisoner gazed after him. ~ onée his h na stooping over the stairs. His fate was ghastly. Wi Pa rattle of rage and despair, he ¢ried, “T tell thee he is " She fell with her face to the grotind; and no sound was then to be heard in the dungeon save the splash of the re! ar water, which rippled the pool cmid the vrofound darkness. , Oh, save thyself — spare —— - = : e . eee Mh ee CHAPTER V. ede - ad ~~. - THE MOTHER, | be LeARNOT conceive anything in the world more de- | . Tighttul n the ideas awakened in the heart of a h sight of her child’s little shoe, especially oe at ‘af it be aa lay, a Sunday, a baptismal] shoe,; a shoe on which, the infant has never yet stepped. 8 is so small and 80 pretty; it is so impossible for it to walk, that it seems to the mother as though she saw her ge Y suniles at it, she kisses it, she talks to. it; she aéks herselt if a foot can really be so small ; ban f the infant should be absent, the pretty shoe is sufficient to set the sweet and tender ereature before her eyes. She furicies she sees it—she does see it—all alive, all joyous, with its delicate hands, its round ead. its pure lips, its serene eyes, the white of which is blue. If it be winter, there it is, crawling upon the carpet, climbing laboriously upon -a foul. and thé mother trembles lest it should approach too near to e fires If it be summer, it is creeping about in the courtyard or in the garden, looking innocently and fearlessly at the big dogs and the big horses, pulling up ibe grass growing between the stones, playing with the shells and the flowers, and’ making the gardener scold on finding sand ondiis borders and mold on Mis paths. All about it is bright, joyous, and playful, like itself, even to the very breeze ahd the sunshine, which sport | together? in the locks of its soft hair. AJl this the little | ‘phoe séts before the mother, and It makes her heart melt like wax before the fire. > t when the child is lost, these thousand images oy, delight, and affection, which crowd. around the ttle shoe, are transformed into as many fright- Knowest thou what agony it is | h, say, wilt thou not | | little feet step up my bosom to my very lips! Hadst | ;ind are hard to kill. Thou wouldst have had | The priest looked at her without answering. She becomes but an instrument of torture, which is in- | repeated the question. It is still keenly sensitive fiber—not under the caresses of an | angel, but in the grip of a demon. | | One on when the sun. of May was rising in |} One of those de wheels, the tramp of. horses, and the clanking otf iron in the Place de Greve. The noise scarcely roused her; she tied her hair over her ears that she might not | hear it, and again fell to gaze upon. her knees at the inanimate object which she had thus adored for fifteen | yexrs. To her this little shoe was, as we have already | Her thoughts were wrapped | " How’) not eaten. her. | observed, the universe. | up in it, never to be parted from it but by death. | Many bitter imprecations, how many touching com- | plaints, how many earnest prayers she had addressed | | to Heaven on the subject of this charming little shoe | implore thee,” he cried, “ if thou hast any compassion, | of roge-colored satin, was known to the cell of Roland's | useny _ preparations are making. Never were keener sorrows poured forth | Tower alone. Qn this particu- | over object so pretty and so delicate, lar morning her grief seemed to burst forth with | | greater violence than usual; and she was heard from | | without bewailing herself with a loud and monotonous voice which wrung the heart. “Oh my child!”’ said she, ‘‘my child! my poor, dear, | Never, no never shall I see thee more— | little child! and still it seems as if it had happened but yesterday. O my God! my God! better she had not been given to me at all than to have her taken from me so soon! ep-blue skies, beneath which Garofalo | | loved to picture the taking down of the crdéss, the |Tecluse of Roland’s Tower heard the rumbling of | Egy witches, child-stealers ! | my child, my only child! | with her—I have none now !”’ ‘*I know not,’’ said he. “Some boys,’’ rejoined the recluse, ‘‘ said just now that it was an Egyptian.” “I believe so,’’ replied the priest. mamas la Chantefleurie burst into an hystemical augh. “ Sister,”’ said the archdeacon, “‘ you seem to hate the tians with all your heart.’’ ; ate them !’’ cried the recluse; ‘‘why, they are They devoured wey be oeisg girl, They ate my heart along The priest eyed her coldly. ‘There is one in particular,” she resumed, ‘‘ that I hate and that I have cursed; a young girl about the same age that my child would have been now had they Whenever this young viper passes my cell, she sets all my blood a-boiling.’ ‘‘ Well, then, sister, rejoice,’’ said the priest, eold as the statue on a sepulchre; “’tis for her that these . His head sank upon his bosom, and he slowly with- rew. The recluse waved her arms in triumph. é “ Thanks, sir priest,’’ cried she. “1 told her wha she would come to.”’ She then began, with a hurried step, to pace.to and fro before her window, her hair disheveled, her eye glaring, dashing against the wall with her shoulder, with the wild air of a caged she-wolf, which has long been hungry and is aware that the hour for her repast And yet thou must know that our children are a part | 48 #pproaching, : of ourselves, and that a mother who has lost her child |is tempted to—Ah! wretch that I was, to go out that day—Oh, Lord! Lord! to snateh her from me thus. Thou couldst never have seen me with her, when I warmed her, all glee, before the fire, when she ceased sucking to laugh in my face, when I made her Thou seen this, oh, my God! pity on my joy; Thou wouldst not have ravished from me the onky love that-was left in my heart! Was 1 then so. vile a wretch, oh, Lord! that Thou couldst CHAPTER VI. THREE HUMAN HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTITUTED. Puesvs, meanwhile, was not dead. Men of that When Master Philip Lheulieur, advocate extraordinary to the king, said to on me- ralda, He is dying—he was either misinformed or joking. When the archdeacon repeated to her, after éondemna- tion, He is dying—the fact was that he knew nothing not look at me before condemnig me? Alas! alas! | ahout the matter; but he believed it, he had no doubt t is the shoe, but where is the foot? where is the child? My child! My own child? what'have they done with thee? Oh, Lord! give me back my child! My knees have been flayed, for these fifteen years in praying to Thee; is not this enough? Restore her to _ for a day, an hour, a minute, only one minute, on, Lord! and then cast me forth to the evil one to. all | eternity. Oh, didI but know where to find Thee, I would grasp the skirts of Thy warment with both these hands, and not let Thee go till Thou hadst given me back my child! Behold her pretty little shoe! Hast Thou no compassion? Canst Thou doom a wretched mother to fifteen years of such torment as this? Blessed Virgin of Heaven! they have stolen my child; they have devoured her on thé moor; théy | have drunk her blood; they have gnawed her bones. Kind Virgin, haye pity on me! My child! I want my child! What is that to me that she is in Para- dise? I want none of your angels; I want my child. Oh, I will writhe upon the ground;I will dash miy | welt better, Ie Dad deft Th head against the stones, I will gladly seal my own per- dition, so Thou wilt but restore to me my ebild! u seest how these armsare torn? Has then the good God no compassion? Oh let‘them give me but black bread and salt provided I have my daughter; she will be both meat and drink, and warmth and sunshine. confess that lam buta vile sinner, but my child was making me pious. Outet love to her I amend- ing my life, and I saw Thee through her smile as through the opened heavens—Oh, I could but once more, only once, — this. pretty shoeon her rosy little foot, I would die bl thee, Holy Virgin. But fteen h t b wn up now! Unfortunate girl “tis ee p+ A _ r ace thee more, not even in for I shall ever enter. Oh, What anguish—to say, there is her The wretched creature threw erself upon the shoe source of solace and of sorrow for s0 mauy years, aiid she sobbed as though her heartwould tiveck, just she had done on the very first day. Grief like this never rows old. Though the garments of mourning become lreadbare and José their color, thé heart remains black as ever. | At this moment the brisk and merry voices of boys passed before hercell. At the sight or the sound of children, the unhappy mother would always dart into the ws nook of her sepulchre, with such precipi- tation that you would think she was striving to bury her headin the wall, in order thatshe might mot hear them. On this occasion, contrary to cher custém, she started up and listened attentively. One of the boys was just saying to another, “They are going to hang | an Egyptian to-day.’ , | , _ With the sudden bound of the spider, that we lately saw rushing: upon the fly entangled in his net, she sprang to the aperture which looked, as the reader knows, toward the P de Greve. A ladder was ac- _tually reared against the permanent gallows, andthe hangman was engaged in adjusting the chains, which had become rusty with the wet. A few people were standing around. : Ths laughing troop of. boys was already far off. The recluse looked about for some passenger whom she might question. She perceived close to her cell a priest, who feigned to be reading in the public breviary, but whose thoughts were much less engaged by the book than by the gibbet, toward which he glanced from time to time with wild and gloomy lo She recog- nized in him the archdeacon of Josas, au austere and holy man. ' " “Father,” she inquired, ‘whom are they going to hang yonder ?”’ to use the lan of it, he made sure of it, he hoped it. It would have gone too much against the grain to give tidings. of his rival to the female of whom he was enamored. Every man in his place would have done the same. Not that Phofous's wound was not severe, but the injury was less serious than pe archdeacon flattered. himselfit was, The master-chirfirgeon, to whose house the soldiers of the watch had immediately carried him, was for above a week under apprehensions for his life, and had even told him soin Latin. more : ever, enabled him to yet the better of it; ps it inde rhe ly happens, notwithstandin® prognostics and diagnos- >. tics, nature had amused herself in saving the ent. in spite of the coctor’s teeth, It w ile 1 on the master-chirurgeon’s truckle- at he had under- one the first interrogatories | and Philip Lheuli inquisitors of the official, which had ann exceedingly. One fine migraine thérefore, | d spurs in t the chirurgeon’s and decamped without beat of drum. = athe jadi newer: ot in 7 gh atf- ected the judicial proceedings, ce in those days: cared but little about propriety and accurac i inal process; provided that the e jude 0 were hung, it was perfectly satisfied. Now, the pyider sufficient ag sat Pen tivattin ay eli ved Phw to be dead, and that was quite ough. desta : Phebus, on Ris part, had sot ed ~ far. mere] com , , , en- Le the Isle i France, | tew Pr Paris. He felt no inclination whateve forward nally in th Process. 5 impression that he should cut a ri¢ in it. At bottom, he knew not what the whole affair, Irreligious and like every soldier who is he called to mind all the ture, he could not w her love, o the goblin-monk. He imagined that v there was much more of e's than of love, pro ‘ b) a sorceress, perhaps the devil ;in short, a come of those days, a mystery, of a very disagreeable naturé, in'which he p 2m awkward part—that of the butt for blowsand ter. The captain was quite dashed; he felt the sort which La Fontaine so” admirably com with that of afoxcaught by ahen. He hoped, des, that the affair would not be bruited abroad, that in’ his lis fame Would scarcely be mentioned in ¢ with it, or at any rate not beyond the pleading Teurnelle. Neither was he far ig in b tion ; there were then no news rs; ) ely . a week passed but there was some coiner boiled, some witch hanged, or some heretic burned, at‘one of the numberless s of Paris, were 80 accustomed tosee the old feudal Themis,witl bare arms and tucked- up sleeves, performing her office at the gallows and the pillory, that they sare took any notice of such events. Im those days. the higher elasses, scarcely knew the name of the sufferer who was carried past to the corner of the street, and the populace at must re- raled itself with this’ coarse fares Am execution Was a amiliar incideutin the public ways; like the oven of the baker, or the butcher's slaugliter-house. Thehang- man was but akind of butcher, a shade darker than the other. PEWS oe WBS » Phebus therefore soon set his'mind at . ing the sorceress Nsmeralda, or Similar, ashe ca her, the wound inflicted by Bohemian or . lin-monk—he cared not whicheand the issue of the 2ctiom - * . ’ > «,.? GOMIIEHDOOKS: CO