“And you,—do you think of her no longer?”
“Seldom. I have so many other things to occupy me. Heavens! how pretty that little goat of hers was!”
“Did not the girl save your life?”
“She did indeed, by Jupiter!”
“Well, what has become of her? What have you done with her?”
“I can’t say, I fancy that they hanged her.”
“You really think so?”
“I’m not sure of it. When I saw that they had taken to hanging people, I withdrew from the game.”
“Is that all you know about the matter?”
“Stay. I was told that she had taken refuge in Notre-Dame, and that she was in safety there, and I am delighted to hear it; and I can’t find out whether the goat was saved along with her. And that’s all I know about it.”
“I’ll tell you more,” cried Dom Claude; and his voice, hitherto so low, slow, and almost muffled, became as loud as thunder. “She did indeed take refuge in Notre-Dame. But within three days justice will again overtake her, and she will be hanged upon the Place de Grève. Parliament has issued a decree.”
“That’s a pity!” said Gringoire.
The priest, in the twinkling of an eye, had recovered his coldness and calm.
“And who the devil,” resumed the poet, “has amused himself by soliciting an order of restitution? Why couldn’t he have left Parliament in peace? What harm does it do if a poor girl takes shelter under the flying buttresses of Notre-Dame, alongside of the swallows’ nests?”
“There are Satans in the world,” replied the archdeacon.
“That’s a devilish bad job,” observed Gringoire.
The archdeacon resumed, after a pause,— “So she saved your life?”
“From my good friends the Vagrants. A little more, or a little less, and I should have been hanged. They would be very sorry for it now.”
“Don’t you want to do anything to help her?”
“With all my heart, Dom Claude; but what if I should get myself into trouble?”
“What would that matter?”
“What! what would it matter? How kind you are, master! I have two great works but just begun.”
The priest struck his forehead. In spite of his feigned calmness, an occasional violent gesture betrayed his inward struggles.
“How is she to be saved?”
Gringoire said: “Master, I might answer, ‘Il padelt,’ which is Turkish for, ‘God is our hope.’”
“How is she to be saved?” dreamily repeated the archdeacon.
Gringoire in his turn clapped his hand to his head.
“See here, master, I have a lively imagination; I will devise various expedients. Suppose the king were asked to pardon her?”
“Louis XI,—to pardon!”
“Why not?”
“As well try to rob a tiger of his bone!”
Gringoire set to work to find some fresh solution of the difficulty.
“Well!—stop!—Do you want me to draw up a petition to the midwives declaring the girl to be pregnant?”
This made the priest’s hollow eye flash.
“Pregnant, villain! do you know anything about it?”
Gringoire was terrified by his expression. He made haste to say, “Oh, no, not I! our marriage was a true forismaritagium. I was entirely left out. But at any rate, we should gain time.”
“Folly! infamy! be silent!”
“You are wrong to be so vexed,” grumbled Gringoire. “We should gain time; it would do no one any harm, and the midwives, who are poor women, would earn forty Paris pence.”
The priest paid no attention to him.
“And yet she must be got away!” he muttered. “The order will be executed within three days! Besides, even if there were no order, that Quasimodo! Women have very depraved tastes!” He raised his voice: “Master Pierre, I considered it well; there’s but one means of salvation for her.”
“What is it? I, for my part, see none.”
“Listen, Master Pierre, and remember that you owe your life to her. I will frankly tell you my idea. The church is watched night and day. No one is allowed to come out but those who are seen to go in. Therefore, you can go in. You will come, and I will take you to her. You will change clothes with her. She will put on your doublet; you will put on her gown.”
“So far, so good,” remarked the philosopher. “What next?”
“What next? She will walk out in your clothes; you will stay behind in hers. Perhaps they may hang you, but she will be saved.”