第 六 章 · ESMERALDA.

. ESMERALDA.

We are delighted to be able to inform the reader, that during the

whole of this scene, Gringoire and his piece had stood firm. His

actors, spurred on by him, had not ceased to spout his comedy,

and he had not ceased to listen to it. He had made up his mind

about the tumult, and was determined to proceed to the end, not

giving up the hope of a return of attention on the part of the

public. This gleam of hope acquired fresh life, when he saw

Quasimodo, Coppenole, and the deafening escort of the pope of the

procession of fools quit the hall amid great uproar. The throng

rushed eagerly after them. “Good,” he said to himself, “there go

all the mischief-makers.” Unfortunately, all the mischief-makers

constituted the entire audience. In the twinkling of an eye, the

grand hall was empty.

To tell the truth, a few spectators still remained, some

scattered, others in groups around the pillars, women, old men,

or children, who had had enough of the uproar and tumult. Some

scholars were still perched astride of the window-sills, engaged

in gazing into the Place.

“Well,” thought Gringoire, “here are still as many as are

required to hear the end of my mystery. They are few in number,

but it is a choice audience, a lettered audience.”

An instant later, a symphony which had been intended to produce

the greatest effect on the arrival of the Virgin, was lacking.

Gringoire perceived that his music had been carried off by the

procession of the Pope of the Fools. “Skip it,” said he,

stoically.

He approached a group of _bourgeois_, who seemed to him to be

discussing his piece. This is the fragment of conversation which

he caught,—

“You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hôtel de Navarre, which belonged

to Monsieur de Nemours?”

“Yes, opposite the Chapelle de Braque.”

“Well, the treasury has just let it to Guillaume Alixandre,

historian, for six livres, eight sols, parisian, a year.”

“How rents are going up!”

“Come,” said Gringoire to himself, with a sigh, “the others are

listening.”

“Comrades,” suddenly shouted one of the young scamps from the

window, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda in the Place!”

This word produced a magical effect. Every one who was left in

the hall flew to the windows, climbing the walls in order to see,

and repeating, “La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda?” At the same time, a

great sound of applause was heard from without.

“What’s the meaning of this, of the Esmeralda?” said Gringoire,

wringing his hands in despair. “Ah, good heavens! it seems to be

the turn of the windows now.”

He returned towards the marble table, and saw that the

representation had been interrupted. It was precisely at the

instant when Jupiter should have appeared with his thunder. But

Jupiter was standing motionless at the foot of the stage.

“Michel Giborne!” cried the irritated poet, “what are you doing

there? Is that your part? Come up!”

“Alas!” said Jupiter, “a scholar has just seized the ladder.”

Gringoire looked. It was but too true. All communication between

his plot and its solution was intercepted.

“The rascal,” he murmured. “And why did he take that ladder?”

“In order to go and see the Esmeralda,” replied Jupiter

piteously. “He said, ‘Come, here’s a ladder that’s of no use!’

and he took it.”

This was the last blow. Gringoire received it with resignation.

“May the devil fly away with you!” he said to the comedian, “and

if I get my pay, you shall receive yours.”

Then he beat a retreat, with drooping head, but the last in the

field, like a general who has fought well.

And as he descended the winding stairs of the courts: “A fine

rabble of asses and dolts these Parisians!” he muttered between

his teeth; “they come to hear a mystery and don’t listen to it at

all! They are engrossed by every one, by Clopin Trouillefou, by

the cardinal, by Coppenole, by Quasimodo, by the devil! but by

Madame the Virgin Mary, not at all. If I had known, I’d have

given you Virgin Mary; you ninnies! And I! to come to see faces

and behold only backs! to be a poet, and to reap the success of

an apothecary! It is true that Homerus begged through the Greek

towns, and that Naso died in exile among the Muscovites. But may

the devil flay me if I understand what they mean with their

Esmeralda! What is that word, in the first place?—’tis Egyptian!”

BOOK SECOND.