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That is, at least, what was supposed, whether rightly or not. It is certain that the archdeacon often visited the cemetery of the Saints-I
It is certain that he had frequently been seen to enter a little house which Nicolas Flamel had built, where he had died about 1417, and which, constantly deserted since that time, had already begun to fall in ruins. Some neighbors even affirm that they had once seen, through an air-hole, Archdeacon Claude excavating, turning over, digging up the earth in the two cellars. It was supposed that Flamel had buried the philosopher’s stone in the cellar.
Furthermore, it is certain that the archdeacon had established himself in that one of the two towers of Notre-Dame, just beside the frame for the bells, a very secret little cell, into which no one, not even the bishop, entered without his leave, it was said. What that cell contained, no one knew; but at night, there was often seen to appear, disappear, and reappear, a certain red light coming from the small window.
There were no great proofs of sorcery in that, after all, but there was still enough smoke to warrant a surmise of fire.
More than once a choir-boy had fled in terror at finding Frollo alone in the church, so strange and dazzling was his look. More than once, in the choir, at the hour of the offices, his neighbor in the stalls had heard him mingle with the plain song unintelligible parentheses.
However, he had never been more exemplary. By profession as well as by character, he had always held himself aloof from women; he seemed to hate them more than ever. It was also noticed that his horror for Bohemian women and gypsies had seemed to redouble for some time past. He had petitioned the bishop to forbade the Bohemian women to come and dance and beat their tambourines; and for about the same length of time, he had been collecting the cases of sorcerers and witches condemned to fire or the rope.
Chapter VI
Unpopularity
The archdeacon and the bellringer, as we have already said, were but little loved by the populace great and small, in the vicinity of the cathedral. When Claude and Quasimodo went out together, which frequently happened, more than one evil word, more than one insulting jest greeted them on their way.
Sometimes a mischievous child risked his skin and bones for the ineffable pleasure of driving a pin into Quasimodo’s hump. Again, a young girl, more bold and saucy than was fitting, brushed the priest’s black robe, singing in his face the sardonic ditty, “niche, niche, the devil is caught.” Sometimes a group of squalid old crones, squatting in a file under the shadow of the steps to a porch, talked louldy as the archdeacon and the bellringer passed: “Hum! there’s a fellow whose soul is made like the other one’s body!”
But the insult generally passed u
Book Fourth
Chapter I
An Impartial Glance at the Ancient Magistracy
The hall was small, low. A table stood at one end, with a large arm-chair of carved oak, which belonged to the provost and was empty, and a stool on the left for the auditor, Master Florian. Below sat the clerk of the court, scribbling; opposite was the populace; and in front of the door, and in front of the table were many sergeants of the provostship in sleeveless jackets of violet camlet, with white crosses.
Now, the auditor was deaf. A slight defect in an auditor. Master Florian delivered judgment, nonetheless, without appeal and very suitably. Moreover, he had in the audience, a pitiless censor of his deeds and gestures, in the person of our friend Jehan Frollo du Moulin.
The guards brought in a prisoner.
It was Quasimodo, bound, roped, pinioned, and under good guard. He was silent and tranquil.
Master Florian, the auditor, turned over the document in the complaint entered against Quasimodo. He glanced at it and appeared to reflect for a moment. He threw back his head and half closed his eyes, for the sake of more majesty and impartiality, so that, at that moment, he was both deaf and blind. A double condition, without which no judge is perfect.
“Your name?”
Now this was a case where a deaf man were to question a deaf man.
Quasimodo, who didn’t know that a question had been addressed to him, continued to stare intently at the judge, and made no reply. The judge, being deaf, and not knowing the accused was deaf, thought that the latter had answered,—
“Very well. And your age?”
Again Quasimodo made no reply to this question. The judge supposed that it had been replied to, and continued,—
“Now, your profession?”
Still the same silence. The spectators had begun, meanwhile, to whisper together, and to exchange glances.
“That will do,” went on the auditor, when he supposed that the accused had finished his third reply. “You are accused before us of nocturnal disturbance, of a dishonorable act of violence upon the person of a foolish woman, and of rebellion and disloyalty towards the archers of the police of our lord, the king. Explain yourself upon all these points.—Clerk, have you written down what the prisoner has said thus far?”
At this unlucky question, a burst of laughter rose from the clerk’s table. It was caught by the audience and became so contagious that the two deaf men were forced to perceive it. Quasimodo turned round, shrugging his hump with disdain, while Master Florian, supposing that the laughter of the spectators had been provoked by some irreverent reply from the accused, rendered visible to him by that shrug of the shoulders, said,—
“You have uttered a reply, knave, which deserves the halter. Do you know to whom you are speaking?”
That reply made the laughter even louder. Quasimodo alone preserved his seriousness, for the good reason that he understood nothing of what was going on around him. The judge, more and more irritated, thought it his duty to continue in the same tone, hoping to bring the audience back to respect. We don’t know where Master Florian would have landed, if the door at the end of the room had not suddenly opened, and given entrance to the provost in person. At his entrance Master Florian said,—
“Monseigneur,” said he, “I demand such penalty as you shall deem fitting against the prisoner here present, for grave and aggravated offence against the court.”
And he seated himself, utterly breathless. Messire Robert d’Estouteville frowned and made a gesture so imperious and significant to Quasimodo, that the deaf man understood it.
The provost addressed him with severity, “What have you done that you have been brought hither, knave?”
The poor fellow, supposing that the provost was asking his name, broke the silence.
“Quasimodo.”
The reply matched the question so little that the wild laugh began to circulate once more, and Messire Robert exclaimed, red with wrath,—
“Are you mocking me also, you arrant knave?”
“Bellringer of Notre-Dame,” replied Quasimodo, supposing that what was required of him was to explain to the judge who he was.
“Bellringer!” interpolated the provost, who had waked up early enough to be in a sufficiently bad temper. “Bellringer! I’ll play you a chime of rods on your back through the squares of Paris! Do you hear, knave? Messieurs the sergeants of the mace, you will take me this knave to the pillory, you will flog him, and turn him for an hour.”
The clerk set to work to draw up the account of the sentence.