“By the Rood! Sanctuary!” said the king, scratching his ear. “And yet this woman must be hanged.”
Here, as if struck by a sudden thought, he fell upon his knees before his chair, doffed his hat, put it on the seat, and gazing devoutly at one of the leaden images with which it was loaded, he exclaimed, with clasped hands: “Oh, Our Lady of Paris, my gracious patroness, pardon me! I will only do it this once. This criminal must be punished. I assure you, Holy Virgin, my good mistress, that she is a witch, and unworthy of your generous protection. You know, madame, that many very pious princes have infringed upon the privileges of the Church for the glory of God and the needs of the State. Saint Hugh, Bishop of England, allowed King Edward to capture a magician in his church. Saint Louis of France, my master, for the same purpose violated the church of St. Paul; and Alphonso, son of the King of Jerusalem, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself. Forgive me this once, Our Lady of Paris! I will never do so again, and I will give you a fine new silver statue, like the one I gave Our Lady of Ecouys last year. Amen.”
He. made the sign of the cross, rose, put on his hat, and said to Tristan,— “Make haste, friend; take Chateaupers with you. Ring the alarm! Quell the mob! Hang the witch! That is all. And I expect you to pay the costs of hanging. You will render me an account thereof. Come, Olivier, I shall not go to bed tonight; shave me.”
Tristan l‘Hermite bowed, and left the room. Then the king dismissed Rym and Coppenole with a gesture, and the words,— “God keep you, my good Flemish friends. Go, take a little rest; the night is passing, and we are nearer morn than evening.”
Both retired, and on reaching their apartments under the escort of the captain of the Bastille, Coppenole said to Guillaume Rym,— “Ahem! I have had enough of this coughing king. I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, and he was not so bad as Louis XI sick.”
“Master Jacques,” replied Rym, “‘tis because the wine of kings is less cruel than their tisane.”
CHAPTER VI
“The Chive in the Cly”
On leaving the Bastille, Gringoire ran down the Rue Saint-Antoine with the speed of a runaway horse. On reaching the Porte Baudoyer, he walked straight up to the stone cross in the middle of the square, as if he had been able to distinguish in the darkness the figure of a man in a black dress and cowl, who sat upon the steps of the cross.
“Is it you, master?” said Gringoire.
The black figure rose.
“‘Sdeath! You make my blood boil, Gringoire. The man on the tower of Saint-Gervais has just cried half-past one.”
“Oh,” rejoined Gringoire, “it is not my fault, but that of the watch and the king. I have had a narrow escape. I always just miss being hanged; it is my fate.”
“You just miss everything,” said the other; “but make haste. Have you the password?”
“Only fancy, master, that I have seen the king! I have just left him. He wears fustian breeches. It was quite an adventure.”
“Oh, you spinner of words! What do I care for your adventure? Have you the watchword of the Vagrants?”
“I have; never fear. It is ‘the Chive in the Cly.”’ “Good! Otherwise we could not make our way to the church. The Vagrants block the streets. Luckily, it appears that they met with considerable resistance. We may yet be there in time.”
“Yes, master; but how are we to get into Notre-Dame?”
“I have the key to the towers.”
“And how shall we get out?”
“There is a small door, behind the cloisters, which opens upon the Terrain, and thence to the water. I have the key, and I moored a boat there this morning.”
“I had a pretty escape from being hanged!” repeated Gringoire.
“Come, be quick!” said the other.
Both went hurriedly towards the City.
CHAPTER VII
Chateaupers to the Rescue
The reader may perhaps recall the critical situation in which we left Quasimodo. The brave deaf man, assailed on every hand, had lost, if not all courage, at least all hope of saving not himself （he did not think of himself）， but the gipsy. He ran frantically up and down the gallery. Notre-Dame was about to be captured by the Vagrants. Suddenly, the gallop of horses filled the neighboring streets, and with a long train of torches and a broad column of horsemen riding at full speed with lances lowered, the furious sound burst into the square like a whirlwind:— “France! France! Hew down the clodpolls! Chateaupers to the rescue! Provosty! provosty!”