“I love the fire, my dear lord; not for the trivial reason that the fire warms our feet or cooks our soup, but because it throws out sparks. I sometimes spend hours in watching the sparks fly up. I discover a thousand things in these stars that sprinkle the black chimney-back. These stars are worlds as well.”
“May I be struck by lightning if I understand you!” said the Vagrant. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I do not,” replied Gringoire.
Clopin then went up to the Duke of Egypt:— “Comrade Mathias, this is not a lucky moment for our scheme. They say that King Louis XI is in Paris.”
“So much the more reason for rescuing our sister from his claws,” answered the old gipsy.
“You speak like a man, Mathias,” said the King of Tunis. “Moreover, we will act adroitly. We need fear no resistance within the church. The canons are mere hares, and we muster strong. The officers of the Parliament will be nicely taken in tomorrow when they come to seize her! By the Pope’s bowel! I don’t want the pretty maid hanged!”
With these words, Clopin left the tavern.
Meantime, Jehan shouted in hoarse tones,— “I drink, I eat, I am drunk, I am Jupiter himself! Ha! Pierre l‘As sommeur, if you stare at me like that, I’ll dust your nose with my fist!”
Gringoire, on his side, roused from his meditations, was contemplating the wild, noisy scene before him, muttering between his teeth: “Luxuriosa res vinum et tumultuosa ebrietas.dq Alas! I have good reasons for not drinking; and how aptly Saint Benedict says: ‘Vinum apostatare facit etiam sapientes!”，dr
At this instant Clopin returned, and cried in a voice of thunder, — “Midnight!”
At this word, which had the effect of “Boot and saddle!” upon a regiment at rest, all the Vagrants, men, women, and children, rushed hurriedly from the tavern, with a great clatter of arms and old iron.
The moon was overcast.
The Court of Miracles was quite dark. There was not a light to be seen; and yet it was far from being empty. A crowd of men and women, talking together in low tones had collected. There was an audible buzz of voices and a glitter of all sorts of weapons in the darkness. Clopin mounted a huge stone.
“To your ranks, Men of Slang!” he cried. “To your ranks, Gipsies! To your ranks, Greeks!”
There was a stir in the gloom. The vast multitude seemed to be forming into line. After a brief pause the King of Tunis again raised his voice:— “Now, silence as we pass through Paris! ‘The chive in the cly’dsis the password! The torches will not be lighted until we reach Notre-Dame! Forward, march!”
Ten minutes later the horsemen of the watch fled in terror before a long procession of dark, silent men descending upon the Pont-au-Change through the crooked streets which traverse the closely built region of the Halles in every direction.
CHAPTER IV
An Awkward Friend
That same night Quasimodo did not sleep. He had just made his last round in the church. He did not notice, as he closed the doors, that the archdeacon passed, and seemed somewhat vexed at seeing him so carefully bolt and chain the immense iron bars which made the wide leaves as solid as a wall. Dom Claude looked even more preoccupied than usual. Moreover, ever since his nocturnal adventure in the cell he had abused Quasimodo constantly; but though he maltreated him, nay, sometimes even beat him, nothing shook the submission, patience, and humble resignation of the faithful ringer. From the archdeacon he would bear anything and everything,—insults, threats, blows,—without murmuring a reproach, without uttering a complaint. At most he anxiously followed Dom Claude with his eye, as he climbed the tower stairs; but the archdeacon had carefully abstained from appearing again in the gipsy’s presence.
That night, then, Quasimodo, after giving a glance at his poor forsaken bells,—at Jacqueline, Marie, and Thibauld—had ascended to the roof of the north tower, and there, placing his well-closed dark-lantern upon the leads, gazed out over Paris. The night, as we have already said, was very dark. Paris, which at this time was but scantily lighted, presented to the eye a confused collection of black masses, intersected here and there by the silvery bend of the Seine. Quasimodo saw but a single light, and that in the window of a distant structure, the dim, dark outlines of which were distinctly visible above the roofs, in the direction of Porte Saint-Antoine. There, too, some one was watching.
While his one eye roamed over the expanse of mist and night, the ringer felt within him an inexplicable sense of alarm. For some days he had been upon his guard. He had constantly seen evil-looking men prowling about the church, and never taking their eyes from the young girl’s hiding-place. He fancied that there might be some plot brewing against the unfortunate refugee. He imagined that she was a victim to popular hatred like himself, and that something might come of it soon. He therefore stationed himself upon his tower, on the alert, “dreaming in his dreamery,” as Rabelais has it, his eye by turns bent upon the cell and upon Paris, keeping faithful watch, like a trusty dog, with a thousand doubts and fears.