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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 11 Chapter 2 The Beautiful Creature Clad In White

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34281]
Book 11 Chapter 2 The Beautiful Creature Clad In White
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伽西莫多看见小屋里空空的，埃及姑娘不在屋里，在他保卫她的时候，有人把她拐走了。这时他用两只手扯着头发，又吃惊又痛苦地跺起脚来，随后他跑遍整个教堂去寻找埃及姑娘，到每个角落里去发出奇怪的叫喊，把手里的红头发撒了一地。正巧这时那些搜捕埃及姑娘的王室弓箭手胜利地走进了圣母院，伽西莫多便帮着他们搜寻起来，那可怜的聋子丝毫没料到他们要把她弄死，他以为那些乞丐才是埃及姑娘的敌人呢。他亲自把特里斯丹·莱尔米特领到每个可以躲人的地方看看，替他打开那些秘密的门，那些祭坛的夹层和后面那些圣器室。假若不幸的姑娘真是躲在那些地方，把她交出去的可能正是他呢。当特里斯丹因为找不到而厌烦起来的时候（他在这种情况下是难得厌烦的），伽西莫多便自个儿寻找。他在整个教堂里找了二十遍，上百遍，从东到西，从南到北，从上到下，一会儿上楼，一会儿下楼，奔跑着，呼唤着，叫喊着，搜寻着，探索着，把脑袋伸到每个洞里去张望，把火把举到每个拱顶下面去照照，一副绝望的疯狂的样子。丢失了母鸡的公鸡也不会比他更惊惶失措，更啼叫得厉害。最后他肯定，万分肯定她不在教堂里面了。

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一切都完哪，她给人抓走哪。他慢吞吞地爬上钟塔的楼梯，他把她救进教堂的那天，他带着多么喜悦和胜利的心情走过那些地方，此刻他重新走过那些地方时，低着头，屏息不响，也不流泪。教堂又显得荒凉寂静起来，弓箭手们离开教堂到旧城区各处去追捕埃及姑娘去了，伽西莫多独自留在刚才还是闹闹嚷嚷地被攻打着的教堂里，他朝通到那所小屋的路上走去，姑娘在他的保护之下在那小屋里睡了好几个星期呢。快要到那小屋跟前的时候，他仍然幻想着或许还能在那里找到她。当他走到教堂两旁过道顶上的回廊拐角处，看见那间小屋连同它的小门窗象树上的鸟窝一般缩在一根弓形支柱下面，那可怜的人的心再也支持不住了，便靠着一根柱子免得跌倒。他想象她或许已经回到小屋里去了，一定有一位天使把她带回了那里，那小屋子多么安静，多么稳固，多么可爱，她不会不在那里。他不敢再前进一步，唯恐自己的梦想破灭。“是啊，”他自言自语地说道，“她也许还在睡觉，或者在祷告，别去惊醒她吧。”

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最后他鼓起勇气踮着脚尖轻轻走到那小屋跟前，四面看看就跨了进去。

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空空的！那间小屋依旧是空空的！那可怜的聋子放慢脚步在屋里走了一圈，把垫褥掀起来看看，好象她能够躲在垫褥和地板之间似的。随后他摇摇头发起呆来，忽然他气忿地用脚把火把踏灭，不说一句话也不叹一口气，把脑袋拚命往墙上一碰，就昏倒在地上了。

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他清醒过来后，又扑到垫褥上滚来滚去，狂热地亲吻她躺过的还有些温暖的地方。他在那里好一会象要断气似的一动不动，随后又满头大汗，气喘吁吁，昏昏沉沉地站起来，象敲钟一般匀称地用脑袋去碰墙，好象决心要把脑袋碰破。最后他又筋疲力竭地跌倒了一次。他用膝盖一步一移地爬出了那间小屋，好象惊呆了似的蹲在门对面。他就这样毫不动弹地在那里呆了一个多钟头。他那牢牢盯着小屋的眼睛，比一个坐在空空的摇篮和孩子的棺木之间的母亲的眼睛更加凄惨，更加专注。他没有说一句话，过了好一会才哭泣起来，哭得浑身颤抖，但那是没有眼泪的哭泣，就象夏天无声的闪电。

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好象就是当他在他极其悲痛的幻想深处探索着到底是什么意外把埃及姑娘抢去了的时候，他忽然想起副主教。他记得只有堂·克洛德才有通到钟塔楼梯的钥匙。他想起了副主教对那姑娘的黑夜偷袭。第一次伽西莫多给他帮过忙，第二次阻止过他。他想起成千的细节详情，觉得抢走埃及姑娘的一定是副主教无疑了。但是他对那个神甫那么尊敬，他对他的感激和忠诚已经在他心里深深地扎了根，甚至就是到了此刻，他也还在挣扎着不让妒嫉和绝望来制服他。

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可怜的聋子认为那一定是副主教干的，当他的满腔愤怒和仇恨涉及克洛德·孚罗洛时，他就感到更加痛苦。

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当他这样不断想着神甫的时候，曙光已经照上了那些弓形柱子，他看见在圣母院最高的一层楼上，在半圆殿外面的栏杆的拐角处，有个人影在那里走动，是和他朝着同一个方向走的，他认出了那正是副主教。克洛德的脚步缓慢而沉重，他走路时眼睛并没有朝前看，他是向着靠北边那座钟塔走去，但他的脸却转向着另一边，望着塞纳河右岸，脑袋高高挺起，好象是要越过那些屋脊去望一件什么东西似的。猫头鹰往往有这种歪斜的姿势，它飞向一处，眼睛却望着另一处。那个神甫就是这样在伽西莫多上面一层楼走过去了，并没有看见他。

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被神甫的突然出现惊呆了的聋子，看见他钻进了靠北边那座钟塔楼梯的门底下。读者知道，从那座钟塔上是望得见总督府的。伽西莫多站起来跟着副主教走去。

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伽西莫多想弄明白神甫到那座钟塔去干什么，于是也爬上了通到那座钟塔的楼梯。尽管如此，那可怜的敲钟人不知道自己会干出什么事，不知道他伽西莫多会说出什么话，也不知道自己打算怎么办，他心里充满了愤怒和惶恐。副主教和埃及姑娘在他的心头冲突不已。

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到了钟塔顶上，还没有跨出楼梯的阴影到达平台之前，他小心地看了看神甫在什么地方。神甫正背着他。那里有一条围绕着平台的栏杆伸出在外面。

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眼睛牢牢盯住市民区那边的神甫，正把胸膛靠在朝向圣母桥那一面的栏杆上。

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伽西莫多轻轻地走到他背后去看他那么出神地在望什么。望得出神的神甫竟没有听见那聋子走到了自己身边。

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从圣母院钟塔顶上望去，夏日清晨沐浴在新鲜光辉里的巴黎景色是异常的壮丽可爱，那个时辰的巴黎更是如此。那天大约是在七月份，天空十分明朗，稀疏的晨星正在东一颗西一颗地逐渐消隐，有一颗最亮的在东边，在天上最明亮的地方。太阳刚刚在升起，巴黎开始蠕动起来了，一道极明亮的光把所有朝东的房屋的轮廓清楚地送到眼前。钟楼巨大的影子从一座屋顶伸展到另一座屋顶，从大都市的这一头伸展到另一头。有些地区喧嚣声已经开始，这里是钟声，那里是锤子敲打的声音，再远些又是一辆货车走动的声音。屋顶上已经到处冒起炊烟，就象从巨大的硫磺矿里冒出的烟雾一样。塞纳河从许多桥拱下，从许多小岛尖头流过，翻起无数银白的波浪。在都市周围那些碉堡外面，是一片象羊毛那样的濛濛的雾，透过那层雾气，模糊的大片原野和优美的此起彼伏的山陵隐约在望。各种飘浮的声音都向半醒的城市散落，晓风把雾濛濛的山丘上几团散碎的白云推向东边的天空。

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巴尔维广场上有几个拿着牛奶罐的女人，看见圣母院大门上奇怪的伤痕和凝结在砂石缝里的两股熔铅，都露出惊讶的样子。那就是夜间的骚动所留下的痕迹了，伽西莫多在两座钟塔之间燃起的大火已经熄灭，特里斯丹已经把广场打扫干净，把所有的尸体都扔进了塞纳河。路易十一那一类国王，在每次屠杀后总要留心把道路洗刷干净的。

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钟塔栏杆外面，正当那神甫站着的地点下面，有一条哥特式建筑上常有的那种造得很富于幻想色彩的石头水槽，在那水槽的一条裂缝里有两朵盛开的美丽的紫罗兰，在晓风中摇曳，好象人一样，嬉笑着在点头行礼。在钟塔上面，远处高空里传来鸟的啭鸣。

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神甫没有看见也没有听见所有这一切，他是那种不知道有清晨，有飞鸟，有花朵的人物。在他周围那广阔无边的天际，景物何止万千，但他的眼光却只集中在一点上。

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伽西莫多急于要问他埃及姑娘怎么样了，但副主教此刻仿佛灵魂出了窍似的，他显然已进入那种即使地球在他脚下崩裂也毫无感觉的境界了，他的眼睛一直盯在某个地方，不动也不出声。但那种不动和默不作声的神情却如此可怕，使那粗野的敲钟人战战兢兢，不敢上前惊动他，他只能跟着副主教的眼光望去——那也是一种询问方法——，于是那不幸的聋子的眼光也落到了格雷沃广场上。

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这样他便看见副主教望见的是什么了，梯子已经靠在那常设在那里的绞刑架上，广场上有几个平民和很多士兵，一个男人在石板路上拖着一件白色的东西，它还拖带着另一件黑色的东西。那个男人在绞刑架下停住了。

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这时那地方似乎发生了什么事情，伽西莫多没有看清楚，这并不是由于他那一只独眼看不到那么远，而是由于那里有一大堆士兵把他的视线挡住了，使他不能全部看清楚。而且那时太阳已经出来，一时霞光万道，使巴黎所有的尖拱形建筑物如钟楼呀，烟囱呀，山墙呀，一下子变得象着了火一般通红。

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那个男人开始往扶梯上爬去。伽西莫多很清楚地看见他了，他肩头上扛着一个女人，那是一个穿白衣服的姑娘，脖子上套着一个麻绳活结。伽西莫多认出了她，那就是她呀。

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那个男人就那样爬到了梯子顶上，他把活结整理了一下，那当儿，神甫为了看得更清楚些，就双膝跪到栏杆上去。

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那个人忽然用脚把梯子一踢，已经好一会屏住气息的伽西莫多就看见那不幸的孩子在麻绳末端摇晃起来，离地面两■高，那人把双脚踏在那可怜的孩子的两肩上，麻绳转动了几下，伽西莫多看见埃及姑娘浑身发出一阵可怕的抽搐。至于神甫，他正伸长着脖子，眼睛似乎要爆出来似的，全神贯注地望着那个男人和那个姑娘的可怕的景象，真是一幅蜘蛛捕蝇的图画。

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到了那最骇人的刹那，只见一个魔鬼般的笑，一个不复是人类所能有的笑，从神甫铁青的脸上迸出来。伽西莫多听不见笑声，但却看见了那个笑容。

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敲钟人从副主教身后倒退了几步，突然愤怒地向他扑过去，用两只大手朝堂·克洛德的背上一推，把他从他靠着的地方往下推去。

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神甫喊了一声“该死的”就掉下去了。

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我们刚才说过，他靠着的地方下面有一条水槽，在他跌下去时挡住了他。

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当他用双手拚命抓住那条水槽，想张嘴喊第二声的时候，他从栏杆边上望见了伽西莫多那张可怕的忿恨的脸正在他的头顶上，他只好不作声了。

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他下面就是深渊，得落下去两百多呎才能着地。处在那样可怕的境地，副主教不说话也不呻吟，他只是在那水槽上扭着身子，使出罕见的力气挣扎着，想往上爬。可是他的手抓不住那花岗石，他的脚踏在黑黑的墙上也站不稳。到过圣母院塔上的人都知道，那栏杆脚下的石头都是逐渐向外边突出去的。副主教筋疲力尽地待着的地方正是那个向里缩的角落，他要对付的并不是一堵陡直的墙，而是一堵下边朝里倾斜的墙。

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伽西莫多只要向他伸出手去就能把他拖出深渊，但是他连看也不看他一眼，他在望格雷沃广场，在望绞刑架，在望埃及姑娘。那聋子就靠在副主教刚才靠着的栏杆上，从那里目不转睛地望着此刻他在世间所关心的唯一的目标。他象受了雷击的人一样不动也不响，一长串泪珠从他那一共还只流过一滴眼泪的独眼里悄悄地往下流淌。

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副主教正在那里喘气，他的秃头上全是汗，抓着石头的手指流着血，双膝在墙上擦破了皮。他听见自己那挂在水槽上的袈裟的撕裂声，他每挣扎一下，袈裟就裂得更大。最糟糕的是水槽的末端只有一个铅铸的管子，但也已经被他的体重压弯了。副主教觉得那铅管在逐渐弯折，那倒霉的家伙自言自语地说，到他疲倦得松开手的时候，到他的袈裟完全撕裂的时候，到那条铅管折断的时候，他就会跌下去，想到这里他吓得五内崩裂。有几次他迷迷糊糊地看着十来呎下面有个平台之类的狭小的边沿，好象是在修教堂时偶然弄成的，他在绝望之余从心底祷告上苍让他就在那个两呎见方的处所了却残生，哪怕待上一百年也行。有一次他向下面的广场望去，向那空空的深渊望去，他再抬起头时就把眼睛紧紧闭上，头发都一根根竖了起来。

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那两人的沉默十分可怕。当那副主教在离他几步远的极其可怕的状态里折腾的时候，伽西莫多正流着眼泪望着格雷沃广场。

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副主教看到他所有的挣扎只能使他现在攀附的着力点晃摇起来，便决心不再动一动了，他就待在那里，抱着那条水槽，几乎不呼吸也不动弹，只是腹部还有一阵机械的抽搐，就象人们在梦中觉得要往下坠的时候一样。他呆定定的眼睛睁得很大，一副惊慌痛苦的样子，可是他渐渐支持不住了，手指头慢慢从水槽上滑了下去，他愈来愈感到双臂的无力和身体的沉重，那支撑他的铅管逐渐向空中弯。他向下面望望，真可怕，圆形的圣若望教堂的屋顶小得好象一张折做两半的纸牌。他向钟塔上漠不关心的雕像一一望去，它们也象他似的挂在悬崖陡壁上，但它们并不为自己担心，也不对他表示半点怜悯。他周围全是些石头，他眼前是那些张着嘴的怪物，他下面，在最底下，是广场的石板地，他头上，是正在哭泣的伽西莫多。

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巴尔维广场上有好几堆大胆的好奇的人，在那里安详地猜测着用那么奇怪的方法来消遣的疯子是个什么人。神甫听见他们说道（因为又清楚又尖锐的谈话声传到了他的耳边）：“他会跌断脖子的！”

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伽西莫多哭着。

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气忿惊骇得口吐白沫的副主教终于明白一切办法都没有用，于是他竭尽全力作一次最后的挣扎，他攀住水槽，双膝抵在墙上，两手插进一条石头缝里，往上爬了约有一呎左右。但这个动作突然一下子把他靠着的那条铅管的一头弄断了，同时袈裟也给撕成了两半，这时他感到除开自己僵硬无力的双手还攀着点什么之外，脚底下完全没有了着落。于是那倒运的家伙才闭着眼睛放弃了水槽，跌了下去。

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伽西莫多眼看他跌下去。

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从那么高的地方跌下去是很难垂直的，被抛到空中的副主教起先是脑袋朝下，两臂摊开，随后在空中打了几个旋，风把他刮到了一个屋脊上，碰断了几根骨头。他给刮到屋脊上时还没有摔死，那敲钟人还看见他用手去抓那堵山墙，但是屋顶倾斜度较大，他又已经毫无力气，他很快就象一块往下掉的瓦片似的从那屋脊上滑落下去，弹到了石板路上，在那里他再也不动弹了。

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这时伽西莫多重新抬起眼睛去望埃及姑娘，看见她的身子吊在绞刑架上，远远地在她的白衣服里作临死的痛苦的颤抖。随后他又低下头去看看直挺挺躺在钟塔下面的摔得不象人样的副主教，他从心底里发出了一声呜咽：“啊！都是我爱过的人呀！”

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When Quasimodo saw that the cell was empty, that the gypsy was no longer there, that while he had been defending her she had been abducted, he grasped his hair with both hands and stamped with surprise and pain; then he set out to run through the entire church seeking his Bohemian, howling strange cries to all the corners of the walls, strewing his red hair on the pavement. It was just at the moment when the king’s archers were making their victorious entrance into Notre-Dame, also in search of the gypsy. Quasimodo, poor, deaf fellow, aided them in their fatal intentions, without suspecting it; he thought that the outcasts were the gypsy’s enemies. He himself conducted Tristan l’Hermite to all possible hiding-places, opened to him the secret doors, the double bottoms of the altars, the rear sacristries. If the unfortunate girl had still been there, it would have been he himself who would have delivered her up.

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When the fatigue of finding nothing had disheartened Tristan, who was not easily discouraged, Quasimodo continued the search alone. He made the tour of the church twenty times, length and breadth, up and down, ascending and descending, running, calling, sbouting, peeping, rummaging, ransacking, thrusting his head into every hole, pushing a torch under every vault, despairing, mad. A male who has lost his female is no more roaring nor more haggard.

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At last when he was sure, perfectly sure that she was no longer there, that all was at an end, that she had been snatched from him, he slowly mounted the staircase to the towers, that staircase which he had ascended with so much eagerness and triumph on the day when he had saved her. He passed those same places once more with drooping head, voiceless, tearless, almost breathless. The church was again deserted, and had fallen back into its silence. The archers had quitted it to track the sorceress in the city. Quasimodo, left alone in that vast Notre-Dame, so besieged and tumultuous but a short time before, once more betook himself to the cell where the gypsy had slept for so many weeks under his guardianship.

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As he approached it, he fancied that he might, perhaps, find her there. When, at the turn of the gallery which opens on the roof of the side aisles, he perceived the tiny cell with its little window and its little door crouching beneath a great flying buttress like a bird’s nest under a branch, the poor man’s heart failed him, and he leaned against a pillar to keep from falling. He imagined that she might have returned thither, that some good genius had, no doubt, brought her back, that this chamber was too tranquil, too safe, too charming for her not to be there, and he dared not take another step for fear of destroying his illusion. "Yes," he said to himself, "perchance she is sleeping, or praying. I must not disturb her."

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At length he summoned up courage, advanced on tiptoe, looked, entered. Empty. The cell was still empty. The unhappy deaf man walked slowly round it, lifted the bed and looked beneath it, as though she might be concealed between the pavement and the mattress, then he shook his head and remained stupefied. All at once, he crushed his torch under his foot, and, without uttering a word, without giving vent to a sigh, he flung himself at full speed, head foremost against the wall, and fell fainting on the floor.

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When he recovered his senses, he threw himself on the bed and rolling about, he kissed frantically the place where the young girl had slept and which was still warm; he remained there for several moments as motionless as though he were about to expire; then he rose, dripping with perspiration, panting, mad, and began to beat his head against the wall with the frightful regularity of the clapper of his bells, and the resolution of a man determined to kill himself. At length he fell a second time, exhausted; he dragged himself on his knees outside the cell, and crouched down facing the door, in an attitude of astonishment.

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He remained thus for more than an hour without making a movement, with his eye fixed on the deserted cell, more gloomy, and more pensive than a mother seated between an empty cradle and a full coffin. He uttered not a word; only at long intervals, a sob heaved his body violently, but it was a tearless sob, like summer lightning which makes no noise.

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It appears to have been then, that, seeking at the bottom of his lonely thoughts for the unexpected abductor of the gypsy, he thought of the archdeacon. He remembered that Dom Claude alone possessed a key to the staircase leading to the cell; he recalled his nocturnal attempts on the young girl, in the first of which he, Quasimodo, had assisted, the second of which he had prevented. He recalled a thousand details, and soon he no longer doubted that the archdeacon had taken the gypsy. Nevertheless, such was his respect for the priest, such his gratitude, his devotion, his love for this man had taken such deep root in his heart, that they resisted, even at this moment, the talons of jealousy and despair.

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He reflected that the archdeacon had done this thing, and the wrath of blood and death which it would have evoked in him against any other person, turned in the poor deaf man, from the moment when Claude Frollo was in question, into an increase of grief and sorrow.

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At the moment when his thought was thus fixed upon the priest, while the daybreak was whitening the flying buttresses, he perceived on the highest story of Notre-Dame, at the angle formed by the external balustrade as it makes the turn of the chancel, a figure walking. This figure was coming towards him. He recognized it. It was the archdeacon.

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Claude was walking with a slow, grave step. He did not look before him as he walked, he was directing his course towards the northern tower, but his face was turned aside towards the right bank of the Seine, and he held his head high, as though trying to see something over the roofs. The owl often assumes this oblique attitude. It flies towards one point and looks towards another. In this manner the priest passed above Quasimodo without seeing him.

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The deaf man, who had been petrified by this sudden apparition, beheld him disappear through the door of the staircase to the north tower. The reader is aware that this is the tower from which the H?tel-de-Ville is visible. Quasimodo rose and followed the archdeacon.

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Quasimodo ascended the tower staircase for the sake of ascending it, for the sake of seeing why the priest was ascending it. Moreover, the poor bellringer did not know what he (Quasimodo) should do, what he should say, what he wished. He was full of fury and full of fear. The archdeacon and the gypsy had come into conflict in his heart.

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When he reached the summit of the tower, before emerging from the shadow of the staircase and stepping upon the platform, he cautiously examined the position of the priest. The priest’s back was turned to him. There is an openwork balustrade which surrounds the platform of the bell tower. The priest, whose eyes looked down upon the town, was resting his breast on that one of the four sides of the balustrades which looks upon the Pont Notre-Dame.

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Quasimodo, advancing with the tread of a wolf behind him, went to see what he was gazing at thus.

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The priest’s attention was so absorbed elsewhere that he did not hear the deaf man walking behind him.

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Paris is a magnificent and charming spectacle, and especially at that day, viewed from the top of the towers of Notre- Dame, in the fresh light of a summer dawn. The day might have been in July. The sky was perfectly serene. Some tardy stars were fading away at various points, and there was a very brilliant one in the east, in the brightest part of the heavens. The sun was about to appear; Paris was beginning to move. A very white and very pure light brought out vividly to the eye all the outlines that its thousands of houses present to the east. The giant shadow of the towers leaped from roof to roof, from one end of the great city to the other. There were several quarters from which were already heard voices and noisy sounds. Here the stroke of a bell, there the stroke of a hammer, beyond, the complicated clatter of a cart in motion.

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Already several columns of smoke were being belched forth from the chimneys scattered over the whole surface of roofs, as through the fissures of an immense sulphurous crater. The river, which ruffles its waters against the arches of so many bridges, against the points of so many islands, was wavering with silvery folds. Around the city, outside the ramparts, sight was lost in a great circle of fleecy vapors through which one confusedly distinguished the indefinite line of the plains, and the graceful swell of the heights. All sorts of floating sounds were dispersed over this half-awakened city. Towards the east, the morning breeze chased a few soft white bits of wool torn from the misty fleece of the hills.

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In the Parvis, some good women, who had their milk jugs in their hands, were pointing out to each other, with astonishment, the singular dilapidation of the great door of Notre-Dame, and the two solidified streams of lead in the crevices of the stone. This was all that remained of the tempest of the night. The bonfire lighted between the towers by Quasimodo had died out. Tristan had already cleared up the Place, and had the dead thrown into the Seine. Kings like Louis XI. are careful to clean the pavement quickly after a massacre.

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Outside the balustrade of the tower, directly under the point where the priest had paused, there was one of those fantastically carved stone gutters with which Gothic edifices bristle, and, in a crevice of that gutter, two pretty wallflowers in blossom, shaken out and vivified, as it were, by the breath of air, made frolicsome salutations to each other. Above the towers, on high, far away in the depths of the sky, the cries of little birds were heard.

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But the priest was not listening to, was not looking at, anything of all this. He was one of the men for whom there are no mornings, no birds, no flowers. In that immense horizon, which assumed so many aspects about him, his contemplation was concentrated on a single point.

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Quasimodo was burning to ask him what he had done with the gypsy; but the archdeacon seemed to be out of the world at that moment. He was evidently in one of those violent moments of life when one would not feel the earth crumble. He remained motionless and silent, with his eyes steadily fixed on a certain point; and there was something so terrible about this silence and immobility that the savage bellringer shuddered before it and dared not come in contact with it. Only, and this was also one way of interrogating the archdeacon, he followed the direction of his vision, and in this way the glance of the unhappy deaf man fell upon the Place de Grève.

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Thus he saw what the priest was looking at. The ladder was erected near the permanent gallows. There were some people and many soldiers in the Place. A man was dragging a white thing, from which hung something black, along the pavement. This man halted at the foot of the gallows.

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Here something took place which Quasimodo could not see very clearly. It was not because his only eye had not preserved its long range, but there was a group of soldiers which prevented his seeing everything. Moreover, at that moment the sun appeared, and such a flood of light overflowed the horizon that one would have said that all the points in Paris, spires, chimneys, gables, had simultaneously taken fire.

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Meanwhile, the man began to mount the ladder. Then Quasimodo saw him again distinctly. He was carrying a woman on his shoulder, a young girl dressed in white; that young girl had a noose about her neck. Quasimodo recognized her.

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It was she.

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The man reached the top of the ladder. There he arranged the noose. Here the priest, in order to see the better, knelt upon the balustrade.

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All at once the man kicked away the ladder abruptly, and Quasimodo, who had not breathed for several moments, beheld the unhappy child dangling at the end of the rope two fathoms above the pavement, with the man squatting on her shoulders. The rope made several gyrations on itself, and Quasimodo beheld horrible convulsions run along the gypsy’s body. The priest, on his side, with outstretched neck and eyes starting from his head, contemplated this horrible group of the man and the young girl,--the spider and the fly.

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At the moment when it was most horrible, the laugh of a demon, a laugh which one can only give vent to when one is no longer human, burst forth on the priest’s livid face.

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Quasimodo did not hear that laugh, but he saw it.

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The bellringer retreated several paces behind the archdeacon, and suddenly hurling himself upon him with fury, with his huge hands he pushed him by the back over into the abyss over which Dom Claude was leaning.

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The priest shrieked: "Damnation!" and fell.

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The spout, above which he had stood, arrested him in his fall. He clung to it with desperate hands, and, at the moment when he opened his mouth to utter a second cry, he beheld the formidable and avenging face of Quasimodo thrust over the edge of the balustrade above his head.

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Then he was silent.

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The abyss was there below him. A fall of more than two hundred feet and the pavement.

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In this terrible situation, the archdeacon said not a word, uttered not a groan. He merely writhed upon the spout, with incredible efforts to climb up again; but his hands had no hold on the granite, his feet slid along the blackened wall without catching fast. People who have ascended the towers of Notre-Dame know that there is a swell of the stone immediately beneath the balustrade. It was on this retreating angle that miserable archdeacon exhausted himself. He had not to deal with a perpendicular wall, but with one which sloped away beneath him.

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Quasimodo had but to stretch out his hand in order to draw him from the gulf; but he did not even look at him. He was looking at the Grève. He was looking at the gallows. He was looking at the gypsy.

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The deaf man was leaning, with his elbows on the balustrade, at the spot where the archdeacon had been a moment before, and there, never detaching his gaze from the only object which existed for him in the world at that moment, he remained motionless and mute, like a man struck by lightning, and a long stream of tears flowed in silence from that eye which, up to that time, had never shed but one tear.

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Meanwhile, the archdeacon was panting. His bald brow was dripping with perspiration, his nails were bleeding against the stones, his knees were flayed by the wall.

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He heard his cassock, which was caught on the spout, crack and rip at every jerk that he gave it. To complete his misfortune, this spout ended in a leaden pipe which bent under the weight of his body. The archdeacon felt this pipe slowly giving way. The miserable man said to himself that, when his hands should be worn out with fatigue, when his cassock should tear asunder, when the lead should give way, he would be obliged to fall, and terror seized upon his very vitals. Now and then he glanced wildly at a sort of narrow shelf formed, ten feet lower down, by projections of the sculpture, and he prayed heaven, from the depths of his distressed soul, that he might be allowed to finish his life, were it to last two centuries, on that space two feet square. Once, he glanced below him into the Place, into the abyss; the head which he raised again had its eyes closed and its hair standing erect.

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In the Parvis there were several groups of curious good people, who were tranquilly seeking to divine who the madman could be who was amusing himself in so strange a manner. The priest heard them saying, for their voices reached him, clear and shrill: "Why, he will break his neck!"

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Quasimodo wept.

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