第 五 章 · QUASIMODO.

. QUASIMODO.

In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute Coppenole’s

idea. _Bourgeois_, scholars and law clerks all set to work. The

little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for

the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose

window above the door, left free a circle of stone through which

it was agreed that the competitors should thrust their heads. In

order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple

of hogsheads, which had been produced from I know not where, and

perched one upon the other, after a fashion. It was settled that

each candidate, man or woman (for it was possible to choose a

female pope), should, for the sake of leaving the impression of

his grimace fresh and complete, cover his face and remain

concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In

less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors,

upon whom the door was then closed.

Coppenole, from his post, ordered all, directed all, arranged

all. During the uproar, the cardinal, no less abashed than

Gringoire, had retired with all his suite, under the pretext of

business and vespers, without the crowd which his arrival had so

deeply stirred being in the least moved by his departure.

Guillaume Rym was the only one who noticed his eminence’s

discomfiture. The attention of the populace, like the sun,

pursued its revolution; having set out from one end of the hall,

and halted for a space in the middle, it had now reached the

other end. The marble table, the brocaded gallery had each had

their day; it was now the turn of the chapel of Louis XI.

Henceforth, the field was open to all folly. There was no one

there now, but the Flemings and the rabble.

The grimaces began. The first face which appeared at the

aperture, with eyelids turned up to the reds, a mouth open like a

maw, and a brow wrinkled like our hussar boots of the Empire,

evoked such an inextinguishable peal of laughter that Homer would

have taken all these louts for gods. Nevertheless, the grand hall

was anything but Olympus, and Gringoire’s poor Jupiter knew it

better than any one else. A second and third grimace followed,

then another and another; and the laughter and transports of

delight went on increasing. There was in this spectacle, a

peculiar power of intoxication and fascination, of which it would

be difficult to convey to the reader of our day and our salons

any idea.

Let the reader picture to himself a series of visages presenting

successively all geometrical forms, from the triangle to the

trapezium, from the cone to the polyhedron; all human

expressions, from wrath to lewdness; all ages, from the wrinkles

of the new-born babe to the wrinkles of the aged and dying; all

religious phantasmagories, from Faun to Beelzebub; all animal

profiles, from the maw to the beak, from the jowl to the muzzle.

Let the reader imagine all these grotesque figures of the Pont

Neuf, those nightmares petrified beneath the hand of Germain

Pilon, assuming life and breath, and coming in turn to stare you

in the face with burning eyes; all the masks of the Carnival of

Venice passing in succession before your glass,—in a word, a

human kaleidoscope.

The orgy grew more and more Flemish. Teniers could have given but

a very imperfect idea of it. Let the reader picture to himself in

bacchanal form, Salvator Rosa’s battle. There were no longer

either scholars or ambassadors or _bourgeois_ or men or women;

there was no longer any Clopin Trouillefou, nor Gilles Lecornu,

nor Marie Quatrelivres, nor Robin Poussepain. All was universal

license. The grand hall was no longer anything but a vast furnace

of effrontry and joviality, where every mouth was a cry, every

individual a posture; everything shouted and howled. The strange

visages which came, in turn, to gnash their teeth in the rose

window, were like so many brands cast into the brazier; and from

the whole of this effervescing crowd, there escaped, as from a

furnace, a sharp, piercing, stinging noise, hissing like the

wings of a gnat.

“Ho hé! curse it!”

“Just look at that face!”

“It’s not good for anything.”

“Guillemette Maugerepuis, just look at that bull’s muzzle; it

only lacks the horns. It can’t be your husband.”

“Another!”

“Belly of the pope! what sort of a grimace is that?”

“Holà hé! that’s cheating. One must show only one’s face.”

“That damned Perrette Callebotte! she’s capable of that!”

“Good! Good!”

“I’m stifling!”

“There’s a fellow whose ears won’t go through!” Etc., etc.

But we must do justice to our friend Jehan. In the midst of this

witches’ sabbath, he was still to be seen on the top of his

pillar, like the cabin-boy on the topmast. He floundered about

with incredible fury. His mouth was wide open, and from it there

escaped a cry which no one heard, not that it was covered by the

general clamor, great as that was but because it attained, no

doubt, the limit of perceptible sharp sounds, the thousand

vibrations of Sauveur, or the eight thousand of Biot.

As for Gringoire, the first moment of depression having passed,

he had regained his composure. He had hardened himself against

adversity.—“Continue!” he had said for the third time, to his

comedians, speaking machines; then as he was marching with great

strides in front of the marble table, a fancy seized him to go

and appear in his turn at the aperture of the chapel, were it

only for the pleasure of making a grimace at that ungrateful

populace.—“But no, that would not be worthy of us; no, vengeance!

let us combat until the end,” he repeated to himself; “the power

of poetry over people is great; I will bring them back. We shall

see which will carry the day, grimaces or polite literature.”

Alas! he had been left the sole spectator of his piece. It was

far worse than it had been a little while before. He no longer

beheld anything but backs.

I am mistaken. The big, patient man, whom he had already

consulted in a critical moment, had remained with his face turned

towards the stage. As for Gisquette and Liénarde, they had

deserted him long ago.

Gringoire was touched to the heart by the fidelity of his only

spectator. He approached him and addressed him, shaking his arm

slightly; for the good man was leaning on the balustrade and

dozing a little.

“Monsieur,” said Gringoire, “I thank you!”

“Monsieur,” replied the big man with a yawn, “for what?”

“I see what wearies you,” resumed the poet; “’tis all this noise

which prevents your hearing comfortably. But be at ease! your

name shall descend to posterity! Your name, if you please?”

“Renauld Chateau, guardian of the seals of the Châtelet of Paris,

at your service.”

“Monsieur, you are the only representative of the muses here,”

said Gringoire.

“You are too kind, sir,” said the guardian of the seals at the

Châtelet.

“You are the only one,” resumed Gringoire, “who has listened to

the piece decorously. What do you think of it?”

“He! he!” replied the fat magistrate, half aroused, “it’s

tolerably jolly, that’s a fact.”

Gringoire was forced to content himself with this eulogy; for a

thunder of applause, mingled with a prodigious acclamation, cut

their conversation short. The Pope of the Fools had been elected.

“Noël! Noël! Noël!”[6] shouted the people on all sides. That was,

in fact, a marvellous grimace which was beaming at that moment

through the aperture in the rose window. After all the

pentagonal, hexagonal, and whimsical faces, which had succeeded

each other at that hole without realizing the ideal of the

grotesque which their imaginations, excited by the orgy, had

constructed, nothing less was needed to win their suffrages than

the sublime grimace which had just dazzled the assembly. Master

Coppenole himself applauded, and Clopin Trouillefou, who had been

among the competitors (and God knows what intensity of ugliness

his visage could attain), confessed himself conquered: We will do

the same. We shall not try to give the reader an idea of that

tetrahedral nose, that horseshoe mouth; that little left eye

obstructed with a red, bushy, bristling eyebrow, while the right

eye disappeared entirely beneath an enormous wart; of those teeth

in disarray, broken here and there, like the embattled parapet of

a fortress; of that callous lip, upon which one of these teeth

encroached, like the tusk of an elephant; of that forked chin;

and above all, of the expression spread over the whole; of that

mixture of malice, amazement, and sadness. Let the reader dream

of this whole, if he can.

The acclamation was unanimous; people rushed towards the chapel.

They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But

it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest

pitch; the grimace was his face.

Or rather, his whole person was a grimace. A huge head, bristling

with red hair; between his shoulders an enormous hump, a

counterpart perceptible in front; a system of thighs and legs so

strangely astray that they could touch each other only at the

knees, and, viewed from the front, resembled the crescents of two

scythes joined by the handles; large feet, monstrous hands; and,

with all this deformity, an indescribable and redoubtable air of

vigor, agility, and courage,—strange exception to the eternal

rule which wills that force as well as beauty shall be the result

of harmony. Such was the pope whom the fools had just chosen for

themselves.

One would have pronounced him a giant who had been broken and

badly put together again.

When this species of cyclops appeared on the threshold of the

chapel, motionless, squat, and almost as broad as he was tall;

_squared_ on the _base_, as a great man says; with his doublet

half red, half violet, sown with silver bells, and, above all, in

the perfection of his ugliness, the populace recognized him on

the instant, and shouted with one voice,—

“’Tis Quasimodo, the bellringer! ’tis Quasimodo, the hunchback of

Notre-Dame! Quasimodo, the one-eyed! Quasimodo, the bandy-legged!

Noël! Noël!”

It will be seen that the poor fellow had a choice of surnames.

“Let the women with child beware!” shouted the scholars.

“Or those who wish to be,” resumed Joannes.

The women did, in fact, hide their faces.

“Oh! the horrible monkey!” said one of them.

“As wicked as he is ugly,” retorted another.

“He’s the devil,” added a third.

“I have the misfortune to live near Notre-Dame; I hear him

prowling round the eaves by night.”

“With the cats.”

“He’s always on our roofs.”

“He throws spells down our chimneys.”

“The other evening, he came and made a grimace at me through my

attic window. I thought that it was a man. Such a fright as I

had!”

“I’m sure that he goes to the witches’ sabbath. Once he left a

broom on my leads.”

“Oh! what a displeasing hunchback’s face!”

“Oh! what an ill-favored soul!”

“Whew!”

The men, on the contrary, were delighted and applauded.

Quasimodo, the object of the tumult, still stood on the threshold

of the chapel, sombre and grave, and allowed them to admire him.

One scholar (Robin Poussepain, I think), came and laughed in his

face, and too close. Quasimodo contented himself with taking him

by the girdle, and hurling him ten paces off amid the crowd; all

without uttering a word.

Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.

“Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness

that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope

at Rome, as well as at Paris.”

So saying, he placed his hand gayly on his shoulder. Quasimodo

did not stir. Coppenole went on,—

“You are a rogue with whom I have a fancy for carousing, were it

to cost me a new dozen of twelve livres of Tours. How does it

strike you?”

Quasimodo made no reply.

“Cross of God!” said the hosier, “are you deaf?”

He was, in truth, deaf.

Nevertheless, he began to grow impatient with Coppenole’s

behavior, and suddenly turned towards him with so formidable a

gnashing of teeth, that the Flemish giant recoiled, like a

bull-dog before a cat.

Then there was created around that strange personage, a circle of

terror and respect, whose radius was at least fifteen geometrical

feet. An old woman explained to Coppenole that Quasimodo was

deaf.

“Deaf!” said the hosier, with his great Flemish laugh. “Cross of

God! He’s a perfect pope!”

“Hé! I recognize him,” exclaimed Jehan, who had, at last,

descended from his capital, in order to see Quasimodo at closer

quarters, “he’s the bellringer of my brother, the archdeacon.

Good-day, Quasimodo!”

“What a devil of a man!” said Robin Poussepain still all bruised

with his fall. “He shows himself; he’s a hunchback. He walks;

he’s bandy-legged. He looks at you; he’s one-eyed. You speak to

him; he’s deaf. And what does this Polyphemus do with his

tongue?”

“He speaks when he chooses,” said the old woman; “he became deaf

through ringing the bells. He is not dumb.”

“That he lacks,” remarks Jehan.

“And he has one eye too many,” added Robin Poussepain.

“Not at all,” said Jehan wisely. “A one-eyed man is far less

complete than a blind man. He knows what he lacks.”

In the meantime, all the beggars, all the lackeys, all the

cutpurses, joined with the scholars, had gone in procession to

seek, in the cupboard of the law clerks’ company, the cardboard

tiara, and the derisive robe of the Pope of the Fools. Quasimodo

allowed them to array him in them without wincing, and with a

sort of proud docility. Then they made him seat himself on a

motley litter. Twelve officers of the fraternity of fools raised

him on their shoulders; and a sort of bitter and disdainful joy

lighted up the morose face of the cyclops, when he beheld beneath

his deformed feet all those heads of handsome, straight,

well-made men. Then the ragged and howling procession set out on

its march, according to custom, around the inner galleries of the

Courts, before making the circuit of the streets and squares.