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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris
Book 7 Chapter 2 A Priest And A Philosopher Are Two Different
属类：
双语小说
【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 维克多-雨果]
阅读：[34490]
Book 7 Chapter 2 A Priest And A Philosopher Are Two Different
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姑娘们看见的那个斜靠在钟塔顶上凝神望着流浪姑娘跳舞的神甫，的确是副主教克洛德·孚罗洛。
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我们的读者还记得副主教在塔上给自己保留的那间密室吧。（说起来，我不知道它是否就是如今在两塔起基的平台上，从东边一人高的地方，在方形窗口那里依旧能望见它内部的那一个。这是一所光秃空洞而破旧的小屋，粉刷得不好的墙壁上，如今象教堂前墙上那样到处装饰着黄色雕刻。我猜想这个小密室可能是经常被蝙蝠和蜘蛛占据着的，因而倒霉的虫豸就遭受着双重的歼灭了。）
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每天日落前一个钟头，副主教就爬上那座钟塔的楼梯，把自己关闭在那个密室里，有时就在那里过夜。那天，他一来到他那休息室的低矮的门前，把他经常挂在身边的小荷包里的钥匙插进钥匙孔，一阵鼓声和响板声就传到了他的耳朵里，声音是从巴尔维广场来的。我们所说的那间小密室，只有一个开向教堂屋脊的窗口，克洛德·孚罗洛急忙把钥匙放回荷包，过一会他就已经站在钟塔顶上，就象那些姑娘看见他时那副阴森沉思的样子。
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他严肃地不动地待在那里，专心致志地观看着，思考着。他脚下是整个巴黎以及它的成千座建筑的顶楼和秀丽的山岗的圆圆的轮廓，是桥下曲折的河流与街上潮涌似的行人，是那些云彩和烟雾，是那些和圣母院挤在一起的高高低低的屋脊。但是在这整座城市里，副主教的眼睛在所有的街道中只注意一个地方，那就是巴尔维广场，在所有的人中间只注意一个人，那就是那个流浪姑娘。
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很难说清楚那副眼光是什么性质，眼中闪烁的火焰又是打哪里来的，那是一副呆定定的目光，然而充满着烦恼与不安。他全身凝然不动，只是偶尔机械地颤抖一下，好象被风摇动的树木一样。看到他那比他靠着的栏杆更象大理石般不动的手肘，看到那使他面孔皱缩的呆板的笑容，你会认为克洛德身上只有眼睛还是活着的。
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那流浪姑娘正在跳舞，她把小鼓在手指尖上转动，在跳普罗旺斯的沙拉邦德舞的当儿，就把小鼓抛到空中。她又轻盈、又飘逸、又欢乐，并没有觉察到那象铅一般落在她身上的可怕的眼光的分量。
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人群围在她的四周，有个穿红黄两色外衣的男人偶尔到那里来绕一圈，然后又坐在离那跳舞姑娘几步之外的一把椅子上，把山羊的脑袋抱在膝头。
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那个男人好象是那流浪姑娘的伙伴，克洛德·孚罗洛从他所在的高处看不清那人的脸孔。
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看见那个陌生人，副主教的注意力就好象一半给了他一半给了跳舞姑娘，脸色越来越阴暗了。他忽然挺直身子，一阵战栗透过他的全身。“这个男人是谁？”他咬牙切齿地说道，“我总是瞧见她单独一人的呀！”
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于是他从弯弯曲曲的螺旋梯下楼去，在经过钟楼的半开着的房门时他见到的一件事又使他心里一动，他看见伽西莫多俯身靠着石板屋檐上一个大百叶窗似的窗口，也象他自己一样在望着广场，他望得那么专心致志，根本没发觉他的义父经过，他那粗犷的眼睛里有一种奇怪的表情。“这倒怪了！”
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克洛德喃喃自语道，“他这样注意看的难道是那个埃及姑娘吗？”他继续下楼。几分钟后，不安的副主教便从钟塔下面的一道门里走出，到广场上来了。
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“波希米亚姑娘怎么啦？”他混进被鼓声吸引来的人群中问道。
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“我不知道，”他身边的人回答道，“她刚才不见了，我想她是被请到对面那幢房子里跳舞去了吧，那里有人招呼她去。”
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就在埃及姑娘待过的地方，就在她刚才用异想天开的舞步把图案遮没了的那张地毯上，副主教只看见一个穿红黄两色衣服的男人，因为该轮到他去赚几个钱啦，他便在观众面前绕圈儿走着，两肘插在腰上，头向后仰，脸涨红着，脖子伸得长长的，嘴里咬着一把椅子，椅子上绑着一只刚才从旁边一个女观众那里借来的猫，那猫因为害怕，正在大声叫唤着。
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“圣母啊！”那街头卖艺人带着那个由小猫和椅子做成的金字塔淌着大颗汗水走过副主教面前时，副主教喊道，“比埃尔·甘果瓦先生在干什么呀？”
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副主教严厉的声音，使那倒霉鬼受到相当的震动，他那个金字塔失去了平衡，椅子和小猫乱七八糟地倒在近旁人们的头上了。其他的人就发出一片叫骂。
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比埃尔·甘果瓦（因为那正好是他呢）先生同那只猫的主人，以及围着他的那些脸孔被擦破或碰伤了的人之间，也许会发生一场争吵，要不是他急忙乘着混乱躲进了教堂，是克洛德做了个手势叫他跟去的。
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教堂里已经昏暗无人，小礼拜堂的灯光已经象星星似的在闪烁发光，只有教堂前墙上巨大的雕花圆窗被落到天边的夕阳照成五光十色，象一堆宝石在暗中闪亮，把炫目的反光投射到本堂远远的尽头。
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他们走了不多几步，堂·克洛德忽然停下来，靠在一根柱子上，呆定定地看着甘果瓦。这种眼光甘果瓦并不害怕，因为让那严肃有学问的人看见自己穿着小丑服装而感到惊讶，他正觉得羞愧呢。但神甫的眼光并没有嘲笑的意思，而是认真的、安静的、穿透一切的。副主教先说话了：“到这边来，比埃尔先生，你得给我说明好些事情。第一，两个月没看见你啦，你是从哪里来的，怎么会穿着这样漂亮的衣服出现在十字路口？真漂亮哟，半红半黄，象一只戈德倍苹果！”
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“老师，”甘果瓦可怜巴巴地答道，“这的确是件奇妙的衣服，你看得出来，我穿着它真比一只猫儿戴着椰子壳做的帽子还要尴尬。我觉得要是引起军警先生们来敲打这件可笑衣服里面的毕达哥拉斯派哲学家的肩膀，那才糟糕呢。可是你有什么办法呀，我尊敬的老师？这只能怪我那件旧外衣，它在刚刚入冬时就抛弃了我，借口说它已经烂成了破布渣，只配扔到捡破烂的人的篮子里去。怎么办呀？我们的文明还不到能让我们象古代狄奥瑞纳希望的那样光着身子走路的地步，并且那时候刮着挺冷的风，一月的天气要让人尝试那种新花样可行不通呀！这件外衣落到我手里我才把那件破旧的黑外衣扔掉了，因为它对于我这样一位神秘哲学家太不神秘啦。于是我穿上了这件江湖卖艺人的衣服，象个圣吉雷斯特。可您有什么办法？这是权宜之计呀！
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阿波罗不是替亚代梅来斯喂过猪么？”
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“你可有了一个漂亮差使了。”副主教说。
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“老师，我明白在火炉里点火或到天上取火，都要比在大街上牵着一只猫更富于诗意和哲学意味。听见你喊我，我就觉得自己象站在一个纸球跟前的毛驴那样可笑。可是有什么办法呢，老师？每天都要过活呀！最好的亚力山大体诗歌，对于嘴巴还不如一片布西奶酪值钱呢。你知道我写了一首著名的贺婚诗，是献给弗朗德勒公主玛格丽特的，可是这城市却拒绝付给我稿费，借口说它写得并不算好，倒好象人们可以付四个先令给索福克勒斯的一部悲剧似的。我眼看就快饿死了，幸好我知道自己的牙床还挺好，我便向它说道：‘努力撑持着，自己养活自己吧’。有一群后来成了我的好朋友的乞丐，教会了我二十来种把戏，这样我每天晚上都能用我白天额头上流的汗水挣来的面包给我的牙齿嚼了。我承认这样浪费我的天才终究很可悲，一个人不能光是敲敲鼓咬着椅子过日子。可是，尊敬的老师，不光要活下去，还得自己挣钱活下去啊！”
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堂·克洛德·孚罗洛一言不发地听他说着，忽然他那深沉的眼睛里露出一种锐利的探究的表情，以至甘果瓦觉得那种眼光一直射到他灵魂深处。
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“很好，比埃尔先生，可是你现在怎么会同那个埃及跳舞姑娘在一块的呢？”
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“哎呀！”甘果瓦说，“那因为她是我的妻子，我是她的丈夫呀！”
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神甫阴森森的眼睛差点冒出火来。
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“你竟做出了这种事吗，可怜的东西？”他怒冲冲地抓住甘果瓦的胳膊说，“你要为了做那姑娘的丈夫而被上帝抛弃吗？”
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“说到我进天堂的事么，大人，”甘果瓦全身发着抖回答道，“我向你担保，我连碰也没有碰过她呢，要是使你担心的就是这回事的话。”
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“那你怎么说你们是夫妇呢？”神甫问道。
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甘果瓦赶快尽量简明扼要地把读者已经知道的那段经历讲给他听：他冒险去到圣迹区以及他的碎罐婚礼。他还说到这个婚姻连一点结果都没有，那波希米亚姑娘每天晚上都象第一晚那样不许他亲近。“这是一桩痛苦的事，”
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他结束道，“但这都因为我不幸是和一位圣女结婚的原故。”
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“你的话是什么意思？”副主教问道，他听了甘果瓦刚才的话以后，比较平静些了。
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“这可不容易讲清楚啦。”诗人回答道，“那是由于一种迷信。据那个我们称为埃及公爵的老家伙告诉我，我的妻子是一个被抛弃的或是捡来的孩子——这两回事本来差不多。她的脖子上戴着一个符咒，他们说那个符咒会使她有一天找到她的父母，但是假若她失去了贞操，那个符咒就会失掉魔力。
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这件事就足够使我们两人都保持着纯洁了。”
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“那么，”脸色越来越开朗的克洛德说，“你相信那小东西没有被男人碰过？”
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“堂·克洛德，你想要一个男人拿迷信怎么办？她的头脑里装着那个东西呀。我本来认为，那些容易接近的波希米亚妇女中间是很少有人保持着那种修女般的贞操的。但她受着三重保护：她在埃及公爵的保护之下，他或许是打算把她卖给什么女修道院吧；她部落里所有的人全都十分尊敬她，把她当作一位圣母；还有那快活的人儿不顾总督禁令经常在胸前藏着一把匕首，要是你迫近她的身子，她就把匕首举在手里。她是一只不好惹的黄蜂呢，我告诉你！”
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副主教还向甘果瓦刺刺地问个没完。
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照甘果瓦的意见，拉·爱斯梅拉达是一个无害的迷人的人儿，除了她那特别的扁嘴。她是个天真热情的姑娘，什么都不懂，却又对什么都挺热心。
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她连男人和女人的差别都不明白，就是在梦里也弄不清。她就是那一种人，特别喜欢跳舞，喜欢热闹和新鲜空气。她很象一只蜂王，脚上长着看不见的翅膀，生活在永远的回旋中间，她是在一直流浪的生活里养成这种性格的。
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甘果瓦偶然间知道她很小的时候就走遍了西班牙和卡塔卢尼亚，一直走到西西里。他甚至认为她曾经被她所属的吉普赛流浪群带到阿加以地区的阿尔及尔王国去，那是阿加以伸向阿尔巴尼亚和希腊的一角，另一角伸向西西里海岸，是通向君士坦丁堡去的。甘果瓦说阿尔及尔国王当摩尔的白人酋长的时候，那些流浪人都是从属于他的臣民。拉·爱斯梅拉达的确是在很年幼时从匈牙利到法国来的。这姑娘从那些地方带来了几句行话，各种各样的奇异歌曲和想法，她的语言和她那半巴黎式半非洲式的服装是同样复杂的。她常去的地方的人都很喜欢她，由于她的善良，她愉快的性格，活泼的姿态以及她的歌声和她的舞蹈。她相信全城里只有两个人恨她，她每次提起那两个人都十分恐惧：一个是罗兰塔可恶的隐修女，每当埃及姑娘经过她的窗前都要挨她咒骂；一个是一位神甫，他碰到她时的眼光和所讲的那些话都使她害怕。
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副主教听到后一种情况时相当不安，然而甘果瓦并未注意到，两个月来的经历使这位无忧无虑的诗人忘记了他遇见埃及姑娘那天晚上的奇异情节以及副主教在那个场合出现的情景。不过那个跳舞姑娘毕竟不用担心什么，她从来不替人算命，不会受到那些流浪妇女常遭遇到的巫术案件的牵连。甘果瓦对于她虽然算不上是个丈夫，至少还算是个兄长。总之，这位哲学家用很大的耐心忍受着那种柏拉图式的婚姻，总算有了住处和面包啦。每天早上他离开乞丐的大本营，往往是和那埃及姑娘一道，在街头协助她收集收集小银币，每天晚上他回到那同一个屋顶下，听凭她锁在她自己的小房间里，他自己却独自睡他的坦然的觉。“生活得很舒服，能学到很多东西，”他说，“沉思默想也很方便。”再说，在这个哲学家的灵魂深处，他并不能肯定自己是多么迷恋那个流浪姑娘，他倒挺爱那只母山羊呢！那是一只迷人的畜生，温柔、伶俐、聪明，是一只训练得很好的小羊。在中世纪，这种驯服的动物是很常见的，人们十分欣赏它们，这就往往把它们的导演人引向火刑。其实这只金脚爪的羊儿所玩的戏法，不过是一种十分天真的游戏罢了。甘果瓦详细地向副主教叙述的这些情况，好象真是十分有趣，常常只要随便把一只小鼓递给那小山羊，它便会表演你想看的戏法，这是它从那流浪姑娘那里学会的。那流浪姑娘有一种罕见的才能，她只用两个月的时间就教会了山羊把几个活动的字母排列成“弗比斯”这个词。
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“弗比斯！”神甫说道，“为什么要排成‘弗比斯’呀？”
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“我不知道，”甘果瓦回答，“可能是她认为这个词包含着某种神秘意思吧。她独自一人的时候，常常低声念诵这个词。”
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克洛德又用洞察一切的眼光看着他问道：“你能断定那只是一个词，不是一个人的名字吗？”
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“谁的名字呀？”诗人问。
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“我怎么知道！”
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“我也这样想过的，先生。也许是这些流浪人有点儿信奉拜火教，崇拜太阳神弗比斯。”
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“我可不象你似的觉得这么明白，比埃尔先生。”
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“可是这对于我没什么关系，随便她怎样去嘀嘀咕咕地念她的‘弗比斯’吧。但加里爱我差不多同爱她一样，这可是确实的。”
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“谁叫加里？”
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“就是那只母山羊呀。”
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副主教用一只手托着下巴，仿佛沉思了一会，忽然他粗鲁地转身向甘果瓦说：“你敢发誓说你没有碰过她吗？”
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“碰谁？碰小山羊吗？”甘果瓦问。
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“碰那个女人。”
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“碰我的女人！我敢发誓说没有。”
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“可是你不是经常单独同她在一道吗？”
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“每天晚上一个钟头。”
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“啊，啊！一个男人单独同一位女人在一起的时候，是不会想起去念主祷词的。”
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“凭我的灵魂担保，我能念《主祷词》，也能念《圣母颂》和‘我相信上帝——我们万能的父’。要知道她对我并不比一只母鸡对教堂更关心呵。”
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“用你母亲的灵魂向我担保，”副主教粗暴地说道，“说你连手指尖也没有碰过那女人。”
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“我还可以用我父亲的灵魂担保呢，这样一来这个保证就不会只有一种效验了。但是，我尊敬的老师，也请你允许我问一个问题。”
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“请吧，先生。”
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“这事同你有什么关系呢？”
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副主教苍白的面孔涨红得象少女的双颊一样，他好一会没回答，后来才带着明显的困窘说：“听我说，比埃尔·甘果瓦先生，这样我才能知道你并没有堕落，我是很关心你，很希望你好的。可是假若你同那魔鬼般的埃及姑娘接触一下，就会使你沦为撒旦的奴隶。你知道，肉体往往会使灵魂堕入地狱。只要你接近那个女人，你就会遭殃！就是这么回事。”
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“我试过一次，”甘果瓦搔着耳朵说，“就在新婚的那天。可是我给刺了一下。”
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“你对那件事觉得害羞吗，比埃尔先生？”
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神甫的脸色又沉下来了。
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“还有一次，”诗人微笑着接着说道，“我在睡觉以前从钥匙孔里张望了一下，正好看见一位光穿着衬衣的漂亮小姐，在她那赤裸的脚底下，床榻是不会发出半点响声的。”
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“滚到魔鬼那里去吧！”
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神甫眼睛里露着凶光喊了一声，随后，推开甘果瓦，迈开大步钻到教堂的最暗的拱顶下面去了。
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The priest whom the young girls had observed at the top of the North tower, leaning over the Place and so attentive to the dance of the gypsy, was, in fact, Archdeacon Claude Frollo.
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Our readers have not forgotten the mysterious cell which the archdeacon had reserved for himself in that tower. (I do not know, by the way be it said, whether it be not the same, the interior of which can be seen to-day through a little square window, opening to the east at the height of a man above the platform from which the towers spring; a bare and dilapidated den, whose badly plastered walls are ornamented here and there, at the present day, with some wretched yellow engravings representing the fa?ades of cathedrals. I presume that this hole is jointly inhabited by bats and spiders, and that, consequently, it wages a double war of extermination on the flies).
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Every day, an hour before sunset, the archdeacon ascended the staircase to the tower, and shut himself up in this cell, where he sometimes passed whole nights. That day, at the moment when, standing before the low door of his retreat, he was fitting into the lock the complicated little key which he always carried about him in the purse suspended to his side, a sound of tambourine and castanets had reached his ear. These sounds came from the Place du Parvis. The cell, as we have already said, had only one window opening upon the rear of the church. Claude Frollo had hastily withdrawn the key, and an instant later, he was on the top of the tower, in the gloomy and pensive attitude in which the maidens had seen him.
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There he stood, grave, motionless, absorbed in one look and one thought. All Paris lay at his feet, with the thousand spires of its edifices and its circular horizon of gentle hills--with its river winding under its bridges, and its people moving to and fro through its streets,--with the clouds of its smoke,--with the mountainous chain of its roofs which presses Notre-Dame in its doubled folds; but out .of all the city, the archdeacon gazed at one corner only of the pavement, the Place du Parvis; in all that throng at but one figure,--the gypsy.
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It would have been difficult to say what was the nature of this look, and whence proceeded the flame that flashed from it. It was a fixed gaze, which was, nevertheless, full of trouble and tumult. And, from the profound immobility of his whole body, barely agitated at intervals by an involuntary shiver, as a tree is moved by the wind; from the stiffness of his elbows, more marble than the balustrade on which they leaned; or the sight of the petrified smile which contracted his face,-- one would have said that nothing living was left about Claude Frollo except his eyes.
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The gypsy was dancing; she was twirling her tambourine on the tip of her finger, and tossing it into the air as she danced Proven?al sarabands; agile, light, joyous, and unconscious of the formidable gaze which descended perpendicularly upon her head.
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The crowd was swarming around her; from time to time, a man accoutred in red and yellow made them form into a circle, and then returned, seated himself on a chair a few paces from the dancer, and took the goat’s head on his knees. This man seemed to be the gypsy’s companion. Claude Frollo could not distinguish his features from his elevated post.
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From the moment when the archdeacon caught sight of this stranger, his attention seemed divided between him and the dancer, and his face became more and more gloomy. All at once he rose upright, and a quiver ran through his whole body: "Who is that man?" he muttered between his teeth: "I have always seen her alone before!"
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Then he plunged down beneath the tortuous vault of the spiral staircase, and once more descended. As he passed the door of the bell chamber, which was ajar, be saw something which struck him; he beheld Quasimodo, who, leaning through an opening of one of those slate penthouses which resemble enormous blinds, appeared also to be gazing at the Place. He was engaged in so profound a contemplation, that he did not notice the passage of his adopted father. His savage eye had a singular expression; it was a charmed, tender look. "This is strange!" murmured Claude. "Is it the gypsy at whom he is thus gazing?" He continued his descent. At the end of a few minutes, the anxious archdeacon entered upon the Place from the door at the base of the tower.
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"What has become of the gypsy girl?" he said, mingling with the group of spectators which the sound of the tambourine had collected.
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"I know not," replied one of his neighbors, "I think that she has gone to make some of her fandangoes in the house opposite, whither they have called her."
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In the place of the gypsy, on the carpet, whose arabesques had seemed to vanish but a moment previously by the capricious figures of her dance, the archdeacon no longer beheld any one but the red and yellow man, who, in order to earn a few testers in his turn, was walking round the circle, with his elbows on his hips, his head thrown back, his face red, his neck outstretched, with a chair between his teeth. To the chair he had fastened a cat, which a neighbor had lent, and which was spitting in great affright.
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"Notre-Dame!" exclaimed the archdeacon, at the moment when the juggler, perspiring heavily, passed in front of him with his pyramid of chair and his cat, "What is Master Pierre Gringoire doing here?"
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The harsh voice of the archdeacon threw the poor fellow into such a commotion that he lost his equilibrium, together with his whole edifice, and the chair and the cat tumbled pell-mell upon the heads of the spectators, in the midst of inextinguishable hootings.
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It is probable that Master Pierre Gringoire (for it was indeed he) would have had a sorry account to settle with the neighbor who owned the cat, and all the bruised and scratched faces which surrounded him, if he had not hastened to profit by the tumult to take refuge in the church, whither Claude Frollo had made him a sign to follow him.
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The cathedral was already dark and deserted; the side-aisles were full of shadows, and the lamps of the chapels began to shine out like stars, so black had the vaulted ceiling become. Only the great rose window of the fa?ade, whose thousand colors were steeped in a ray of horizontal sunlight, glittered in the gloom like a mass of diamonds, and threw its dazzling reflection to the other end of the nave.
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When they had advanced a few paces, Dom Claude placed his back against a pillar, and gazed intently at Gringoire. The gaze was not the one which Gringoire feared, ashamed as he was of having been caught by a grave and learned person in the costume of a buffoon. There was nothing mocking or ironical in the priest’s glance, it was serious, tranquil, piercing. The archdeacon was the first to break the silence.
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"Come now, Master Pierre. You are to explain many things to me. And first of all, how comes it that you have not been seen for two months, and that now one finds you in the public squares, in a fine equipment in truth! Motley red and yellow, like a Caudebec apple?"
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"Messire," said Gringoire, piteously, "it is, in fact, an amazing accoutrement. You see me no more comfortable in it than a cat coiffed with a calabash. ’Tis very ill done, I am conscious, to expose messieurs the sergeants of the watch to the liability of cudgelling beneath this cassock the humerus of a Pythagorean philosopher. But what would you have, my reverend master? ’tis the fault of my ancient jerkin, which abandoned me in cowardly wise, at the beginning of the winter, under the pretext that it was falling into tatters, and that it required repose in the basket of a rag-picker. What is one to do? Civilization has not yet arrived at the point where one can go stark naked, as ancient Diogenes wished. Add that a very cold wind was blowing, and ’tis not in the month of January that one can successfully attempt to make humanity take this new step. This garment presented itself, I took it, and I left my ancient black smock, which, for a hermetic like myself, was far from being hermetically closed. Behold me then, in the garments of a stage-player, like Saint Genest. What would you have? ’tis an eclipse. Apollo himself tended the flocks of Admetus."
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"’Tis a fine profession that you are engaged in!" replied the archdeacon.
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"I agree, my master, that ’tis better to philosophize and poetize, to blow the flame in the furnace, or to receive it from carry cats on a shield. So, when you addressed me, I was as foolish as an ass before a turnspit. But what would you have, messire? One must eat every day, and the finest Alexandrine verses are not worth a bit of Brie cheese. Now, I made for Madame Marguerite of Flanders, that famous epithalamium, as you know, and the city will not pay me, under the pretext that it was not excellent; as though one could give a tragedy of Sophocles for four crowns! Hence, I was on the point of dying with hunger. Happily, I found that I was rather strong in the jaw; so I said to this jaw,--perform some feats of strength and of equilibrium: nourish thyself. ~Ale te ipsam~. A pack of beggars who have become my good friends, have taught me twenty sorts of herculean feats, and now I give to my teeth every evening the bread which they have earned during the day by the sweat of my brow. After all, concede, I grant that it is a sad employment for my intellectual faculties, and that man is not made to pass his life in beating the tambourine and biting chairs. But, reverend master, it is not sufficient to pass one’s life, one must earn the means for life.’’
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Dom Claude listened in silence. All at once his deep-set eye assumed so sagacious and penetrating an expression, that Gringoire felt himself, so to speak, searched to the bottom of the soul by that glance.
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"Very good, Master Pierre; but how comes it that you are now in company with that gypsy dancer?"
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"In faith!" said Gringoire, "’tis because she is my wife and I am her husband."
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The priest’s gloomy eyes flashed into flame.
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"Have you done that, you wretch!" he cried, seizing Gringoire’s arm with fury; "have you been so abandoned by God as to raise your hand against that girl?"
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"On my chance of paradise, monseigneur," replied Gringoire, trembling in every limb, "I swear to you that I have never touched her, if that is what disturbs you."
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"Then why do you talk of husband and wife?" said the priest. Gringoire made haste to relate to him as succinctly as possible, all that the reader already knows, his adventure in the Court of Miracles and the broken-crock marriage. It appeared, moreover, that this marriage had led to no results whatever, and that each evening the gypsy girl cheated him of his nuptial right as on the first day. "’Tis a mortification," he said in conclusion, "but that is because I have had the misfortune to wed a virgin."
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"What do you mean?" demanded the archdeacon, who had been gradually appeased by this recital.
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"’Tis very difficult to explain," replied the poet. "It is a superstition. My wife is, according to what an old thief, who is called among us the Duke of Egypt, has told me, a foundling or a lost child, which is the same thing. She wears on her neck an amulet which, it is affirmed, will cause her to meet her parents some day, but which will lose its virtue if the young girl loses hers. Hence it follows that both of us remain very virtuous."
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"So," resumed Claude, whose brow cleared more and more, "you believe, Master Pierre, that this creature has not been approached by any man?"
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"What would you have a man do, Dom Claude, as against a superstition? She has got that in her head. I assuredly esteem as a rarity this nunlike prudery which is preserved untamed amid those Bohemian girls who are so easily brought into subjection. But she has three things to protect her: the Duke of Egypt, who has taken her under his safeguard, reckoning, perchance, on selling her to some gay abbé; all his tribe, who hold her in singular veneration, like a Notre-dame; and a certain tiny poignard, which the buxom dame always wears about her, in some nook, in spite of the ordinances of the provost, and which one causes to fly out into her hands by squeezing her waist. ’Tis a proud wasp, I can tell you!"
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The archdeacon pressed Gringoire with questions.
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La Esmeralda, in the judgment of Gringoire, was an inoffensive and charming creature, pretty, with the exception of a pout which was peculiar to her; a na?ve and passionate damsel, ignorant of everything and enthusiastic about everything; not yet aware of the difference between a man and a woman, even in her dreams; made like that; wild especially over dancing, noise, the open air; a sort of woman bee, with invisible wings on her feet, and living in a whirlwind. She owed this nature to the wandering life which she had always led. Gringoire had succeeded in learning that, while a mere child, she had traversed Spain and Catalonia, even to Sicily; he believed that she had even been taken by the caravan of Zingari, of which she formed a part, to the kingdom of Algiers, a country situated in Achaia, which country adjoins, on one side Albania and Greece; on the other, the Sicilian Sea, which is the road to Constantinople. The Bohemians, said Gringoire, were vassals of the King of Algiers, in his quality of chief of the White Moors. One thing is certain, that la Esmeralda had come to France while still very young, by way of Hungary. From all these countries the young girl had brought back fragments of queer jargons, songs, and strange ideas, which made her language as motley as her costume, half Parisian, half African. However, the people of the quarters which she frequented loved her for her gayety, her daintiness, her lively manners, her dances, and her songs. She believed herself to be hated, in all the city, by but two persons, of whom she often spoke in terror: the sacked nun of the Tour-Roland, a villanous recluse who cherished some secret grudge against these gypsies, and who cursed the poor dancer every time that the latter passed before her window; and a priest, who never met her without casting at her looks and words which frightened her.
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The mention of this last circumstance disturbed the archdeacon greatly, though Gringoire paid no attention to his perturbation; to such an extent had two months sufficed to cause the heedless poet to forget the singular details of the evening on which he had met the gypsy, and the presence of the archdeacon in it all. Otherwise, the little dancer feared nothing; she did not tell fortunes, which protected her against those trials for magic which were so frequently instituted against gypsy women. And then, Gringoire held the position of her brother, if not of her husband. After all, the philosopher endured this sort of platonic marriage very patiently. It meant a shelter and bread at least. Every morning, he set out from the lair of the thieves, generally with the gypsy; he helped her make her collections of targes* and little blanks** in the squares; each evening he returned to the same roof with her, allowed her to bolt herself into her little chamber, and slept the sleep of the just. A very sweet existence, taking it all in all, he said, and well adapted to revery. And then, on his soul and conscience, the philosopher was not very sure that he was madly in love with the gypsy. He loved her goat almost as dearly. It was a charming animal, gentle, intelligent, clever; a learned goat. Nothing was more common in the Middle Ages than these learned animals, which amazed people greatly, and often led their instructors to the stake. But the witchcraft of the goat with the golden hoofs was a very innocent species of magic. Gringoire explained them to the archdeacon, whom these details seemed to interest deeply. In the majority of cases, it was sufficient to present the tambourine to the goat in such or such a manner, in order to obtain from him the trick desired. He had been trained to this by the gypsy, who possessed, in these delicate arts, so rare a talent that two months had sufficed to teach the goat to write, with movable letters, the word "Phoebus."
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* An ancient Burgundian coin.
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** An ancient French coin.
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"’Phoebus!’" said the priest; "why ’Phoebus’?"
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"I know not," replied Gringoire. "Perhaps it is a word which she believes to be endowed with some magic and secret virtue. She often repeats it in a low tone when she thinks that she is alone."
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"Are you sure," persisted Claude, with his penetrating glance, "that it is only a word and not a name?"
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"That does not seem so clear to me as to you, Master Pierre."
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"After all, that does not concern me. Let her mumble her Phoebus at her pleasure. One thing is certain, that Djali loves me almost as much as he does her."
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