A moment later, a horse was champing his bit under the porch, and the brilliant officer, enveloped in his night cloak, passed rapidly before Quasimodo.
The bellringer allowed him to turn the corner of the street, then he ran after him with his ape-like agility, shouting:
“Hey there! captain!”
The captain halted.
“What wants this knave with me?” he said, catching sight through the gloom of that hipshot form which ran limping after him.
Meanwhile, Quasimodo had caught up with him, and had boldly grasped his horse’s bridle:
“Follow me, captain; there is one here who desires to speak with you!
“Cornemahom!” grumbled Phoebus, “here’s a villanous; ruffled bird which I fancy I have seen somewhere.
Hola master, will you let my horse’s bridle alone?”
“Captain,” replied the deaf man, “do you not ask me who it is?”
“I tell you to release my horse,” retorted Phoebus, impatiently. “What means the knave by clinging to the bridle of my steed?
Do you take my horse for a gallows?”
Quasimodo, far from releasing the bridle, prepared to force him to retrace his steps.
Unable to comprehend the captain’s resistance, he hastened to say to him,—
“Come, captain, ‘tis a woman who is waiting for you.” He added with an effort: “A woman who loves you.”
“A rare rascal!” said the captain, “who thinks me obliged to go to all the women who love me! or who say they do. And what if, by chance, she should resemble you, you face of a screech-owl?
Tell the woman who has sent you that I am about to marry, and that she may go to the devil!”
“Listen,” exclaimed Quasimodo, thinking to overcome his hesitation with a word, “come, monseigneur! ‘tis the gypsy whom you know!”
This word did, indeed, produce a great effect on Phoebus, but not of the kind which the deaf man expected.
It will be remembered that our gallant officer had retired with Fleur-de-Lys several moments before Quasimodo had rescued the condemned girl from the hands of Charmolue.
Afterwards, in all his visits to the Gondelaurier mansion he had taken care not to mention that woman, the memory of whom was, after all, painful to him; and on her side, Fleur-de-Lys had not deemed it politic to tell him that the gypsy was alive.
Hence Phoebus believed poor
“Similar” to be dead, and that a month or two had elapsed since her death.
Let us add that for the last few moments the captain had been reflecting on the profound darkness of the night, the supernatural ugliness, the sepulchral voice of the strange messenger; that it was past midnight; that the street was deserted, as on the evening when the surly monk had accosted him; and that his horse snorted as it looked at Quasimodo.
“The gypsy!” he exclaimed, almost frightened. “Look here, do you come from the other world?”
And he laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“Quick, quick,” said the deaf man, endeavoring to drag the horse along; “this way!”
Phoebus dealt him a vigorous kick in the breast.
Quasimodo’s eye flashed.
He made a motion to fling himself on the captain.
Then he drew himself up stiffly and said,—
“Oh! how happy you are to have some one who loves you!”
He emphasized the words “some one,” and loosing the horse’s bridle,—
“Begone!”
Phoebus spurred on in all haste, swearing.
Quasimodo watched him disappear in the shades of the street.
“Oh!” said the poor deaf man, in a very low voice; “to refuse that!”
He re-entered Notre-Dame, lighted his lamp and climbed to the tower again. The gypsy was still in the same place, as he had supposed.
She flew to meet him as far off as she could see him.
“Alone!” she cried, clasping her beautiful hands sorrowfully.
“I could not find him,” said Quasimodo coldly.
“You should have waited all night,” she said angrily.
He saw her gesture of wrath, and understood the reproach.
“I will lie in wait for him better another time,” he said, dropping his head.
“Begone!” she said to him.
He left her.
She was displeased with him.
He preferred to have her abuse him rather than to have afflicted her.
He had kept all the pain to himself.
From that day forth, the gypsy no longer saw him.