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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 4 Chapter 3 Immanis Pecoris Custos,Immanior Ipse

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34141]
Book 4 Chapter 3 Immanis Pecoris Custos,Immanior Ipse
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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在一四八二年，伽西莫多已经长大成人，他当圣母院的敲钟人已有好几年了，那得感谢他的义父克洛德·孚罗洛。克洛德当上了若札斯的副主教，得感谢他的恩主路易·德·波蒙阁下。一四七二年波蒙在居约姆·夏尔蒂耶逝世后能当上巴黎主教，得感谢他的保护人奥里维·勒丹。奥里维·勒丹当上国王路易十一的理发师，则是由于上天的恩赐。

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于是伽西莫多成了圣母院的钟乐奏鸣家。

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随着时光的消逝，某种亲密的关系把这个敲钟人和这座教堂联结在一起。出身不明和相貌奇丑这两重灾难，早就使他同世界隔离，他从小被幽禁在难以解脱的双重束缚之中，这可怜的不幸的人，在掩护他的宗教壁垒里已经习惯于看不到外界的任何事物，随着他的发育和成长，圣母院对于他就是蛋壳，就是窝，就是家，就是故乡，就是宇宙。

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在这个生物和这座建筑之间，一定存在着某种神秘的超人的协调。他还很小的时候，就驼着背，伸长脖子，在那些拱顶的阴暗处爬行。由于他那人的脸孔和走兽般的四肢，他仿佛是在那阴暗潮湿的地方生长起来的一条爬虫，罗曼式柱顶雕饰就在那地方投下了多种奇形怪状的影子。

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稍后，当他第一次机械地抓住钟塔上的绳索，吊在那里把钟振响起来的时候，在他的义父克洛德看来，就象是一个小孩第一次出声讲话。

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就这样，他适应着那座教堂而逐渐发育成长。他在教堂里生活，在教堂里睡觉，几乎从不走出教堂一步。他每时每刻都受到它神秘的影响，以至于他竟变得同那座教堂十分相象，他把自己镶嵌在教堂里，使自己变成了教堂不可分割的一个部分。他的向外凸出的角（假若我们可以这样来形容），嵌进了那座教堂的往里凹陷的角里，好象他不仅是教堂的住客，而且是教堂当然的组成部分，甚至可以说，他获得了教堂的形状，就象蜗牛具有蜗牛壳的形状一般。教堂是他的住所，他的窝，是装他的封套。在他和那座古老的教堂之间，有一种十分深刻的天然的同情，有那么多的互相吸引的共同性，那么多的实质上的类似，使他就象乌龟依附龟壳一般依附着教堂，那座凹凸不平的教堂成了他的甲壳。

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去提醒读者不要照字面来理解我们在这里不得不用来表现一个人和一座教堂之间的奇特、匀称、直接以及几乎是同类物质的配合是没有用的。同样，要说明在那样长的时期里，在那样亲密的相处过程中他对教堂熟悉到了什么程度也是没有用的。这个住所对伽西莫多挺合适，它没有一个深处不被伽西莫多踏入过，没有一个高处不被伽西莫多攀登过。有多少次，他仅仅靠那些凹凸的雕刻的支持就爬上了教堂前墙的最高处。人们常常看见他爬在两座钟塔外面，就象壁虎爬在陡峭的墙上似的。那两个十分高峻、十分骇人、十分可怕的双生姐妹，没有使他吓得发昏，也没有使他突然惊倒。看见那两座钟塔在他的手底下那么温柔，那么容易攀登，人们会认为正是他把它们驯服了的呢。由于用力地跳跃，爬行和深入这座大教堂的内部，使他变得有些象猿猴或羚羊了，就象一个卡拉布里亚的小孩还没学走路就先学游泳，很小的时候就同大海嬉戏。

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而且，不单是他的身体好象具有教堂的形状，就连他的灵魂也是如此。

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这个灵魂在什么情况下有过什么波折，在那隆起一块的皮囊里这个粗犷的生命是什么样儿，这可是难以说清楚的了。伽西莫多生来就是独眼、驼背、罗圈腿，克洛德费了很大的劲，用了很大的耐心才教会他讲话。但是这弃儿命该倒霉，他十四岁就当了圣母院的敲钟人，这使他得了一种新的残疾：钟声破坏了他的听觉，他变成了聋子。大自然留给他的唯一开向世界的大门，突然永远地关闭了。

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这道门的关闭，把那条还能深入到伽西莫多灵魂里去的唯一快乐与光明的亮光隔绝了，这个灵魂沦入了深深的黑夜。这可怜人的悲哀变得和他的残疾一般齐全，一般无法治疗了。何况他的耳聋又使他有些喑哑，因为发现自己聋了之后，为了不被别人耻笑，他便决定缄口不语，除了独自一人的时候才会破例。他甘愿把克洛德费尽苦心解放出来的舌头又收藏起来，以至于每当不得不说话的时候，他的舌头竟变得那么笨拙和麻痹，好象铰链生锈的门窗一样。

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现在，假若我们试着透过厚实粗糙的皮囊去探索伽西莫多的灵魂，假若我们能去探测这粗笨躯体的深处，假若我们决心去照亮这个不透明的身体，去探寻这迟钝的生物昏暗的内心，去洞悉它的一些暗角和死巷，并且忽然给锁在这洞穴深处的落地大镜子上投去一道极明亮的光，我们一定会发现那不幸的灵魂的姿态是多么可怜、畸形、佝偻，好象那些蜷伏在太矮太低的石头匣子里直到老死的威尼斯铅皮屋顶下的囚犯。

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心灵在一个畸形的躯体中的确是会憔悴的，伽西莫多几乎感觉不到在自己的身体里有一个和他一般模样的灵魂在盲目活动。事物的映象在到达他的思想之前，先遭遇到一定程度的折射。他的头脑是一个奇特的中心，经由它出来的概念都是扭曲的，这种折射所造成的映象，当然是散漫的和迷乱的了。

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于是他那有时疯狂有时痴呆的思想，往往游荡在成千种眼睛的错觉，成千种判断的错乱和种种偏差之中。

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这个注定倒霉的机体得到的第一种影响，是扰乱了他对事物的视觉，他几乎得不到任何直接的反映，外在世界对于他似乎比对于我们遥远得多。

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使他感到不幸的第二种影响，是他变得相当的凶狠。

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他的确是凶狠的，因为他本来就很粗野，而他的粗野又是由于他的丑陋。

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他的性格使他有一套他的逻辑，就象我们的性格使我们有一套我们的逻辑一般。

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他那额外发达的精力，是造成他凶狠的另一个原因。正如俄伯斯所说：“精力充沛的孩子是凶恶的。”

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然而，我们应当公正地指出，他的本性也许并不是凶狠的。自从他在人间第一次迈步，他就感到，随后就看到自己是被人鄙弃，厌恶和不受欢迎的，人的语言在他听来总是嘲笑和咒骂。在他成长的过程中，他从周围发现的只是憎恨，他也学会了憎恨，他有了人所共有的凶狠，他拾起了别人用来伤害他的武器。

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结果，他对人就只有转过脸去，他的圣堂就够使他满足的了，四处都是大理石像，有帝王，有圣徒，有主教，至少他们不会当面嘲笑他，却只向他射来安静和善的眼光，其余妖魔鬼怪的造像，对他伽西莫多也没有仇恨，在这方面他和他们十分相似，他们宁可去嘲笑别人。圣徒都是他的朋友，他们为他祝福，妖怪也是他的朋友，他们保护他不受欺凌，他也长久地和他们谈心。他有时一连几个钟头去蹲在一座塑像跟前，寂寞地同它说着话，在这种时刻，假若突然有什么人走来，他便象一个唱夜曲唱得入迷的情人似的飞快地逃开。

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教堂对于他不仅是一个社会，并且还是一个宇宙，还是整个的自然界。

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除了那些画着花草的彩绘玻璃窗，他不梦想别的草木；除了那些撒克逊式柱顶上石刻的树叶和鸟雀，他不梦想别的绿荫；除了教堂的两座钟塔之外，他不梦想别的大山；除了在它们下面喧腾的巴黎之外，他也不梦想别的海洋。

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但是在那座慈母般的建筑上，他最喜爱的，那唤醒了他的心灵，使他展开悲惨地蜷缩在脑海里的翅膀，使他有时感到幸福的，则是那些钟。他爱那些钟，他抚摸它们，对它们讲话，他了解它们。他对于交叉点上尖尖的钟楼里的那些钟和大门顶上那口大钟，都有一种温柔的感情。十字窗上的那个钟楼和那两座钟塔，对于他就象是三只大鸟笼，笼中的鸟儿被他唤醒，单单为了他而歌唱。虽然使他耳朵变聋了的就是那些钟，但是他热爱它们，正如一位母亲往往最喜爱那个最使她痛苦的孩子。

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真的，他还听得见的只有它们的声音了。那些钟里面他特别喜爱那最大的一口，在节日里围着他笑闹的一群姑娘中间，他选中了她。那口钟名叫玛丽，她挂在靠南边那座钟塔里，同挂在旁边较小的一只笼子里的她的妹妹雅克琳在一道。而雅克琳则是那个把她送给教堂的若望·蒙塔居以他老婆的名字命名的，虽然这件礼物并没能阻止他在隼山扮演掉脑袋的角色。在另一座钟塔里是另外六口钟，最后还有六口最小的钟在交叉点的钟楼里。此外还有一口木钟，那是只有在升天节下午到复活节前一天的早晨这段时间里才可以敲响的。这样，伽西莫多的后宫里就有十五口钟，其中最大的玛丽最为得宠。

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很难形容他在那些钟乐齐奏的日子里享有的那种欢乐。每当副主教放开他，向他说“去吧”的时候，他爬上钟楼的螺旋梯比别人下来还快。他气喘吁吁地跑进放那口大钟的房间，沉思地、爱抚地向那口大钟凝视了一会，接着就温柔地向它说话，用手拍拍它，好象对待一匹就要开始一次长途驰骋的好马，他对那口钟即将开始的辛劳表示怜惜。这样抚慰了一番之后，他便吼叫一声，召唤下一层楼里其余的钟开始行动，它们都在粗绳上挂着。绞盘响了，巨大的圆形金属物就慢慢晃动起来。 “哇！”他忽然爆发出一阵疯狂的大笑和大叫，这时钟的动荡越来越快，当大钟的摇摆到了一个更大的幅度时，伽西莫多的眼睛也就睁得更大更亮。最后大合奏开始了，整座钟塔都在震动，木架、铅板、石块，全都同时咆哮起来，从底层的木桩一直响到塔顶的栏杆。

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于是伽西莫多快乐得嘴里冒出白沫，走过来又走过去，从头到脚都同钟塔一起战栗。那口大钟开放了，疯狂了，把它巨大的铜喉咙向钟塔的左右两廊晃动，发出一阵暴风雨般的奏鸣，四里之外都能听到。伽西莫多在那张开的喉咙眼前，随着钟的来回摆动蹲下去又站起来，他吸着它那令人惊讶的气息，一会儿看看离他二百呎以下的那个深处，一会儿望望那每分钟都在他耳朵里震响的巨大的铜舌，那是他唯一听得见的话语，唯一能扰乱他那绝对寂静的心灵的声音，他在那里把自己舒展开来，就象鸟儿在阳光里展开翅膀一样。

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钟的狂热突然感染了他，他的眼光变得非常奇特，象蜘蛛守候虫豸一般，他等钟荡回来的时候一下子扑上去吊在钟上，于是他在空中高悬，同钟一道拼命地摇来荡去，抓住那空中怪物的两只耳朵，双膝靠着它，双脚踏着它，用自己身体的重量使那口钟摇荡得加倍的快。这时那座钟塔震动起来了，他呢，吼叫着，磨着牙齿，他的头发根根直竖，胸膛里发出拉风箱一般的响声，眼睛里射出光芒，那口古怪的大钟就在他下面喘息地嘶鸣，于是，那既不是圣母院的钟也不是伽西莫多了，却成了一个梦境，一股旋风，一阵暴雨，一种在喧嚣之上的昏晕，成了一个紧抓住飞行物体的幽灵，一个半身是人半身是钟的怪物，一个附在大铜怪身上的阿斯朵甫。

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这个怪人使整座教堂里流动着某种特别的生气，好象是他身上散发出的一种神秘的气息（至少大多数人是这样说的），使圣母院里每块石头都活跃起来，使那座老教堂的五脏六腑都激动起来，只要有他在教堂里，大家就认为门道里和走廊上的塑像都活了过来，动了起来。真的，那大教堂在他的手底下就象一个温驯的生物，它一得到他的命令就发出洪亮的声音，它被伽西莫多所占有，所充实，就象被一个家神所占有所充实一样。可以说是他使得那座大教堂开始呼吸，教堂里到处都有他，他分布在教堂的每个地方。人们有时惊恐地看到在一座钟塔顶上有一个奇怪的侏儒在扭动，他悬空吊着，用四肢在爬行，来到了下面的空处，又从一个檐角跳到另一个檐角，为了去摸索那些夜叉般的雕像，那便是伽西莫多在捅乌鸦窝。有时有人在教堂的一个黑暗角落里被一个蹲在那儿的怪模怪样活象妖精样的人绊了一跤，那便是伽西莫多在沉思。有时人们看到在一座钟楼下面，一个大脑袋和畸形的四肢在一条绳索末端疯狂地摇来荡去，那便是伽西莫多在敲晚祷钟或奉告祈祷钟。

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夜里，人们常常看到一个可怕的形体围着钟塔顶和半圆殿的空花栏杆上游荡，那还是这个圣母院的驼子伽西莫多。于是教堂附近的人们就说整座教堂都有某种神怪的、超自然的和可怕的东西，到处都有睁着的眼睛和张开的嘴，人们听见日夜守卫那怪异教堂的张牙舞爪的石狗石龙石狮之类忽然吼叫起来，假若是在圣诞节晚上，当那口大钟嘶声召唤信徒们去做热忱的午夜弥撒时，那座教堂阴暗的前墙就布满了一种恐怖的气氛，仿佛是那大门道在吞吃群众，而大门顶上的雕花窗则眼睁睁地望着他们。这一切都是因为伽西莫多。

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假如是在埃及，人们可能把他奉为这座寺庙的神祇了，但中世纪的人们却认为他是魔鬼，认为他是魔鬼的灵魂。

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竟至到了这种地步，那些知道伽西莫多曾经在这座教堂里生活过的人，觉得圣母院如今是荒芜的、没有生气的和死沉沉的了。人们感到某种事物已经离去，这个庞大的躯体已经变得空空洞洞。它是一具骷髅，精灵已经飞去，现在只能见到它过去寄居的地方，它就象一具颅骨，虽然有两个眼眶，可是再也没有眼睛的光芒了。

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Now, in 1482, Quasimodo had grown up. He had become a few years previously the bellringer of Notre-Dame, thanks to his father by adoption, Claude Frollo,--who had become archdeacon of Josas, thanks to his suzerain, Messire Louis de Beaumont,--who had become Bishop of Paris, at the death of Guillaume Chartier in 1472, thanks to his patron, Olivier Le Daim, barber to Louis XI., king by the grace of God.

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So Quasimodo was the ringer of the chimes of Notre-Dame.

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In the course of time there had been formed a certain peculiarly intimate bond which united the ringer to the church. Separated forever from the world, by the double fatality of his unknown birth and his natural deformity, imprisoned from his infancy in that impassable double circle, the poor wretch had grown used to seeing nothing in this world beyond the religious walls which had received him under their shadow. Notre-Dame had been to him successively, as he grew up and developed, the egg, the nest, the house, the country, the universe.

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There was certainly a sort of mysterious and pre-existing harmony between this creature and this church. When, still a little fellow, he had dragged himself tortuously and by jerks beneath the shadows of its vaults, he seemed, with his human face and his bestial limbs, the natural reptile of that humid and sombre pavement, upon which the shadow of the Romanesque capitals cast so many strange forms.

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Later on, the first time that he caught hold, mechanically, of the ropes to the towers, and hung suspended from them, and set the bell to clanging, it produced upon his adopted father, Claude, the effect of a child whose tongue is unloosed and who begins to speak.

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It is thus that, little by little, developing always in sympathy with the cathedral, living there, sleeping there, hardly ever leaving it, subject every hour to the mysterious impress, he came to resemble it, he incrusted himself in it, so to speak, and became an integral part of it. His salient angles fitted into the retreating angles of the cathedral (if we may be allowed this figure of speech), and he seemed not only its inhabitant but more than that, its natural tenant. One might almost say that he had assumed its form, as the snail takes on the form of its shell. It was his dwelling, his hole, his envelope. There existed between him and the old church so profound an instinctive sympathy, so many magnetic affinities, so many material affinities, that he adhered to it somewhat as a tortoise adheres to its shell. The rough and wrinkled cathedral was his shell.

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It is useless to warn the reader not to take literally all the similes which we are obliged to employ here to express the singular, symmetrical, direct, almost consubstantial union of a man and an edifice. It is equally unnecessary to state to what a degree that whole cathedral was familiar to him, after so long and so intimate a cohabitation. That dwelling was peculiar to him. It had no depths to which Quasimodo had not penetrated, no height which he had not scaled. He often climbed many stones up the front, aided solely by the uneven points of the carving. The towers, on whose exterior surface he was frequently seen clambering, like a lizard gliding along a perpendicular wall, those two gigantic twins, so lofty, so menacing, so formidable, possessed for him neither vertigo, nor terror, nor shocks of amazement.

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To see them so gentle under his hand, so easy to scale, one would have said that he had tamed them. By dint of leaping, climbing, gambolling amid the abysses of the gigantic cathedral he had become, in some sort, a monkey and a goat, like the Calabrian child who swims before he walks, and plays with the sea while still a babe.

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Moreover, it was not his body alone which seemed fashioned after the Cathedral, but his mind also. In what condition was that mind? What bent had it contracted, what form had it assumed beneath that knotted envelope, in that savage life? This it would be hard to determine. Quasimodo had been born one-eyed, hunchbacked, lame. It was with great difficulty, and by dint of great patience that Claude Frollo had succeeded in teaching him to talk. But a fatality was attached to the poor foundling. Bellringer of Notre-Dame at the age of fourteen, a new infirmity had come to complete his misfortunes: the bells had broken the drums of his ears; he had become deaf. The only gate which nature had left wide open for him had been abruptly closed, and forever.

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In closing, it had cut off the only ray of joy and of light which still made its way into the soul of Quasimodo. His soul fell into profound night. The wretched being’s misery became as incurable and as complete as his deformity. Let us add that his deafness rendered him to some extent dumb. For, in order not to make others laugh, the very moment that he found himself to be deaf, he resolved upon a silence which he only broke when he was alone. He voluntarily tied that tongue which Claude Frollo had taken so much pains to unloose. Hence, it came about, that when necessity constrained him to speak, his tongue was torpid, awkward, and like a door whose hinges have grown rusty.

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If now we were to try to penetrate to the soul of Quasimodo through that thick, hard rind; if we could sound the depths of that badly constructed organism; if it were granted to us to look with a torch behind those non-transparent organs to explore the shadowy interior of that opaque creature, to elucidate his obscure corners, his absurd no-thoroughfares, and suddenly to cast a vivid light upon the soul enchained at the extremity of that cave, we should, no doubt, find the unhappy Psyche in some poor, cramped, and ricketty attitude, like those prisoners beneath the Leads of Venice, who grew old bent double in a stone box which was both too low and too short for them.

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It is certain that the mind becomes atrophied in a defective body. Quasimodo was barely conscious of a soul cast in his own image, moving blindly within him. The impressions of objects underwent a considerable refraction before reaching his mind. His brain was a peculiar medium; the ideas which passed through it issued forth completely distorted. The reflection which resulted from this refraction was, necessarily, divergent and perverted.

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Hence a thousand optical illusions, a thousand aberrations of judgment, a thousand deviations, in which his thought strayed, now mad, now idiotic.

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The first effect of this fatal organization was to trouble the glance which he cast upon things. He received hardly any immediate perception of them. The external world seemed much farther away to him than it does to us.

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The second effect of his misfortune was to render him malicious.

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He was malicious, in fact, because he was savage; he was savage because he was ugly. There was logic in his nature, as there is in ours.

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His strength, so extraordinarily developed, was a cause of still greater malevolence: "~Malus puer robustus~," says Hobbes.

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This justice must, however be rendered to him. malevolence was not, perhaps, innate in him. From his very first steps among men, he had felt himself, later on he had seen himself, spewed out, blasted, rejected. Human words were, for him, always a raillery or a malediction. As he grew up, he had found nothing but hatred around him. He had caught the general malevolence. He had picked up the weapon with which he had been wounded.

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After all, he turned his face towards men only with reluctance; his cathedral was sufficient for him. It was peopled with marble figures,--kings, saints, bishops,--who at least did not burst out laughing in his face, and who gazed upon him only with tranquillity and kindliness. The other statues, those of the monsters and demons, cherished no hatred for him, Quasimodo. He resembled them too much for that. They seemed rather, to be scoffing at other men. The saints were his friends, and blessed him; the monsters were his friends and guarded him. So he held long communion with them. He sometimes passed whole hours crouching before one of these statues, in solitary conversation with it. If any one came, he fled like a lover surprised in his serenade.

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And the cathedral was not only society for him, but the universe, and all nature beside. He dreamed of no other hedgerows than the painted windows, always in flower; no other shade than that of the foliage of stone which spread out, loaded with birds, in the tufts of the Saxon capitals; of no other mountains than the colossal towers of the church; of no other ocean than Paris, roaring at their bases.

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What he loved above all else in the maternal edifice, that which aroused his soul, and made it open its poor wings, which it kept so miserably folded in its cavern, that which sometimes rendered him even happy, was the bells. He loved them, fondled them, talked to them, understood them. From the chime in the spire, over the intersection of the aisles and nave, to the great bell of the front, he cherished a tenderness for them all. The central spire and the two towers were to him as three great cages, whose birds, reared by himself, sang for him alone. Yet it was these very bells which had made him deaf; but mothers often love best that child which has caused them the most suffering.

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It is true that their voice was the only one which he could still hear. On this score, the big bell was his beloved. It was she whom he preferred out of all that family of noisy girls which bustled above him, on festival days. This bell was named Marie. She was alone in the southern tower, with her sister Jacqueline, a bell of lesser size, shut up in a smaller cage beside hers. This Jacqueline was so called from the name of the wife of Jean Montagu, who had given it to the church, which had not prevented his going and figuring without his head at Montfau?on. In the second tower there were six other bells, and, finally, six smaller ones inhabited the belfry over the crossing, with the wooden bell, which rang only between after dinner on Good Friday and the morning of the day before Easter. So Quasimodo had fifteen bells in his seraglio; but big Marie was his favorite.

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No idea can be formed of his delight on days when the grand peal was sounded. At the moment when the archdeacon dismissed him, and said, "Go!" he mounted the spiral staircase of the clock tower faster than any one else could have descended it. He entered perfectly breathless into the aerial chamber of the great bell; he gazed at her a moment, devoutly and lovingly; then he gently addressed her and patted her with his hand, like a good horse, which is about to set out on a long journey. He pitied her for the trouble that she was about to suffer. After these first caresses, he shouted to his assistants, placed in the lower story of the tower, to begin. They grasped the ropes, the wheel creaked, the enormous capsule of metal started slowly into motion. Quasimodo followed it with his glance and trembled. The first shock of the clapper and the brazen wall made the framework upon which it was mounted quiver. Quasimodo vibrated with the bell.

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"Vah!" he cried, with a senseless burst of laughter. However, the movement of the bass was accelerated, and, in proportion as it described a wider angle, Quasimodo’s eye opened also more and more widely, phosphoric and flaming. At length the grand peal began; the whole tower trembled; woodwork, leads, cut stones, all groaned at once, from the piles of the foundation to the trefoils of its summit. Then Quasimodo boiled and frothed; he went and came; he trembled from head to foot with the tower. The bell, furious, running riot, presented to the two walls of the tower alternately its brazen throat, whence escaped that tempestuous breath, which is audible leagues away. Quasimodo stationed himself in front of this open throat; he crouched and rose with the oscillations of the bell, breathed in this overwhelming breath, gazed by turns at the deep place, which swarmed with people, two hundred feet below him, and at that enormous, brazen tongue which came, second after second, to howl in his ear.

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It was the only speech which he understood, the only sound which broke for him the universal silence. He swelled out in it as a bird does in the sun. All of a sudden, the frenzy of the bell seized upon him; his look became extraordinary; he lay in wait for the great bell as it passed, as a spider lies in wait for a fly, and flung himself abruptly upon it, with might and main. Then, suspended above the abyss, borne to and fro by the formidable swinging of the bell, he seized the brazen monster by the ear-laps, pressed it between both knees, spurred it on with his heels, and redoubled the fury of the peal with the whole shock and weight of his body. Meanwhile, the tower trembled; he shrieked and gnashed his teeth, his red hair rose erect, his breast heaving like a bellows, his eye flashed flames, the monstrous bell neighed, panting, beneath him; and then it was no longer the great bell of Notre- Dame nor Quasimodo: it was a dream, a whirlwind, a tempest, dizziness mounted astride of noise; a spirit clinging to a flying crupper, a strange centaur, half man, half bell; a sort of horrible Astolphus, borne away upon a prodigious hippogriff of living bronze.

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The presence of this extraordinary being caused, as it were, a breath of life to circulate throughout the entire cathedral. It seemed as though there escaped from him, at least according to the growing superstitions of the crowd, a mysterious emanation which animated all the stones of Notre-Dame, and made the deep bowels of the ancient church to palpitate. It sufficed for people to know that he was there, to make them believe that they beheld the thousand statues of the galleries and the fronts in motion. And the cathedral did indeed seem a docile and obedient creature beneath his hand; it waited on his will to raise its great voice; it was possessed and filled with Quasimodo, as with a familiar spirit. One would have said that he made the immense edifice breathe. He was everywhere about it; in fact, he multiplied himself on all points of the structure. Now one perceived with affright at the very top of one of the towers, a fantastic dwarf climbing, writhing, crawling on all fours, descending outside above the abyss, leaping from projection to projection, and going to ransack the belly of some sculptured gorgon; it was Quasimodo dislodging the crows. Again, in some obscure corner of the church one came in contact with a sort of living chimera, crouching and scowling; it was Quasimodo engaged in thought. Sometimes one caught sight, upon a bell tower, of an enormous head and a bundle of disordered limbs swinging furiously at the end of a rope; it was Quasimodo ringing vespers or the Angelus. Often at night a hideous form was seen wandering along the frail balustrade of carved lacework, which crowns the towers and borders the circumference of the apse; again it was the hunchback of Notre-Dame. Then, said the women of the neighborhood, the whole church took on something fantastic, supernatural, horrible; eyes and mouths were opened, here and there; one heard the dogs, the monsters, and the gargoyles of stone, which keep watch night and day, with outstretched neck and open jaws, around the monstrous cathedral, barking. And, if it was a Christmas Eve, while the great bell, which seemed to emit the death rattle, summoned the faithful to the midnight mass, such an air was spread over the sombre fa?ade that one would have declared that the grand portal was devouring the throng, and that the rose window was watching it. And all this came from Quasimodo. Egypt would have taken him for the god of this temple; the Middle Ages believed him to be its demon: he was in fact its soul.

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To such an extent was this disease that for those who know that Quasimodo has existed, Notre-Dame is to-day deserted, inanimate, dead. One feels that something has disappeared from it. That immense body is empty; it is a skeleton; the spirit has quitted it, one sees its place and that is all. It is like a skull which still has holes for the eyes, but no longer sight.

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