BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER I
Kind Souls
It was some sixteen years previous to the date of this story, on a fine morning of the first Sunday after Easter, known in France as Quasimodo Sunday, that a living creature was laid, after Mass, in the Church of Notre-Dame, upon the bedstead fixed in the square outside, to the left of the entrance, opposite that “great image” of Saint Christopher, which the carven stone figure of Master Antoine des Essarts, knight, had contemplated on his knees until the year 1413, when it was thought proper to pull down both saint and believer. Upon this bed it was customary to expose foundlings to public charity. Whoever chose to take them, did so. In front of the bedstead was a copper basin for alms.
The sort of living creature lying on the board upon this Sunday morning, in the year of our Lord 1467, seemed to excite in a high degree the curiosity of the somewhat numerous group of people who had gathered around the bed. This group was largely composed of members of the fair sex. They were almost all old women.
In the foremost rank, and bending over the bed, were four who by their grey hoods and gowns seemed to belong to some religious community. I know no reason why history should not hand down to posterity the names of these four discreet and venerable dames. They were Agnès la Herme, Jehanne de la Tarme, Henriette la Gaultière, and Gauchère la Violette, all four widows, all four good women from the Etienne Haudry Chapel, who had come out for the day by their superior’s permission, and conformably to the statutes of Pierre d‘Ailly, to hear the sermon.
However, if these worthy Haudriettes were, for the time being, obeying the statutes of Pierre d‘Ailly, they were certainly wilfully violating those of Michel de Brache and the Cardinal of Pisa, which so barbarously condemned them to silence.
“What on earth is it, sister?” said Agnès to Gauchère, gazing at the little foundling as it shrieked and writhed upon its bed, terrified by so many observers.
“What is the world coming to,” said Jehanne, “if that is the way the children look nowadays?”
“I don’t know much about children,” added Agnès; “but it must surely be a sin to look at this thing.”
“It’s no child, Agnès.”
“It’s a deformed monkey,” remarked Gauchère.
“It’s a miracle,” continued Henriette la Gaultière.
“Then,” observed Agnès, “it’s the third since L?tare Sunday; for it’s not a week since we had the miracle of the mocker of pilgrims divinely punished by Our Lady of Aubervilliers, and that was the second miracle of the month.”
“This foundling, as they call it, is a regular monster of abomination,” added Jehanne.
“He howls fit to deafen a chorister,” said Gauchère. “Will you hold your tongue, you little screamer!”
“To think that the Bishop of Rheims should send this monstrosity to the Bishop of Paris,” went on La Gaultière, clasping her hands.
“I believe,” said Agnès la Herme, “that it’s a beast, an animal, a cross between a Jew and a pig; something, in fact, which is not Christian, and should be burned or drowned.”
“I’m sure I hope,” exclaimed La Gaultière, “that no one will offer to take it.”
“Oh, good gracious!” cried Agnès, “I pity those poor nurses in the Foundling Hospital at the end of the lane, as you go down to the river, just next door to his lordship the bishop, if this little monster is given to them to suckle. I’d rather nurse a vampire.”
“What a simpleton you are, poor La Herme!” cried Jehanne; “don’t you see, sister, that this little wretch is at least four years old, and that he would have less appetite for your breast than for a piece of roast meat.”
In fact, “the little monster” （for we ourselves should find it hard to describe him otherwise） was no new-born baby. He was a very bony and very uneasy little bundle, tied up in a linen bag marked with the monogram of M. Guillaume Chartier, then Bishop of Paris, with a head protruding from one end. This head was a most misshapen thing; there was nothing to be seen of it but a shock of red hair, an eye, a mouth, and teeth. The eye wept, the mouth shrieked, and the teeth seemed only waiting a chance to bite. The whole body kicked and struggled in the bag, to the amazement of the crowd, which grew larger and changed continually around it.
Dame Alo?se de Gondelaurier, a rich and noble lady, leading a pretty girl of some six years by the hand, and trailing a long veil from the golden horn of her headdress, stopped as she passed the bed, and glanced for an instant at the miserable creature, while her lovely little daughter Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier, arrayed in silk and velvet, spelled out with her pretty little finger the permanent inscription fastened to the bedstead “For Foundlings.”