“Yes, my love, I am defending you!” replied the mother, in a dying voice; and clasping her closely in her arms, she covered her with kisses.
The two lying thus on the earth, the mother upon the daughter, presented a spectacle worthy of pity.
Rennet Cousin grasped the young girl by the middle of her body, beneath her beautiful shoulders. When she felt that hand, she cried, “Heuh!” and fainted.
The executioner who was shedding large tears upon her, drop by drop, was about to bear her away in his arms.
He tried to detach the mother, who had, so to speak, knotted her hands around her daughter’s waist; but she clung so strongly to her child, that it was impossible to separate them.
Then Rennet Cousin dragged the young girl outside the cell, and the mother after her.
The mother’s eyes were also closed.
At that moment, the sun rose, and there was already on the Place a fairly numerous assembly of people who looked on from a distance at what was being thus dragged along the pavement to the gibbet.
For that was Provost Tristan’s way at executions.
He had a passion for preventing the approach of the curious.
There was no one at the windows.
Only at a distance, at the summit of that one of the towers of Notre-Dame which commands the Greve, two men outlined in black against the light morning sky, and who seemed to be looking on, were visible.
Rennet Cousin paused at the foot of the fatal ladder, with that which he was dragging, and, barely breathing, with so much pity did the thing inspire him, he passed the rope around the lovely neck of the young girl.
The unfortunate child felt the horrible touch of the hemp.
She raised her eyelids, and saw the fleshless arm of the stone gallows extended above her head.
Then she shook herself and shrieked in a loud and heartrending voice:
“No! no!
I will not!”
Her mother, whose head was buried and concealed in her daughter’s garments, said not a word; only her whole body could be seen to quiver, and she was heard to redouble her kisses on her child.
The executioner took advantage of this moment to hastily loose the arms with which she clasped the condemned girl.
Either through exhaustion or despair, she let him have his way.
Then he took the young girl on his shoulder, from which the charming creature hung, gracefully bent over his large head.
Then he set his foot on the ladder in order to ascend.
At that moment, the mother who was crouching on the pavement, opened her eyes wide.
Without uttering a cry, she raised herself erect with a terrible expression; then she flung herself upon the hand of the executioner, like a beast on its prey, and bit it.
It was done like a flash of lightning.
The headsman howled with pain.
Those near by rushed up.
With difficulty they withdrew his bleeding hand from the mother’s teeth. She preserved a profound silence.
They thrust her back with much brutality, and noticed that her head fell heavily on the pavement.
They raised her, she fell back again.
She was dead.
The executioner, who had not loosed his hold on the young girl, began to ascend the ladder once more.
CHAPTER II. THE BEAUTIFUL CREATURE CLAD IN WHITE. (Dante.)
When Quasimodo saw that the cell was empty, that the gypsy was no longer there, that while he had been defending her she had been abducted, he grasped his hair with both hands and stamped with surprise and pain; then he set out to run through the entire church seeking his Bohemian, howling strange cries to all the corners of the walls, strewing his red hair on the pavement. It was just at the moment when the king’s archers were making their victorious entrance into Notre-Dame, also in search of the gypsy.
Quasimodo, poor, deaf fellow, aided them in their fatal intentions, without suspecting it; he thought that the outcasts were the gypsy’s enemies.
He himself conducted Tristan l’Hermite to all possible hiding-places, opened to him the secret doors, the double bottoms of the altars, the rear sacristries.
If the unfortunate girl had still been there, it would have been he himself who would have delivered her up.
When the fatigue of finding nothing had disheartened Tristan, who was not easily discouraged, Quasimodo continued the search alone.
He made the tour of the church twenty times, length and breadth, up and down, ascending and descending, running, calling, shouting, peeping, rummaging, ransacking, thrusting his head into every hole, pushing a torch under every vault, despairing, mad.
A male who has lost his female is no more roaring nor more haggard.
At last when he was sure, perfectly sure that she was no longer there, that all was at an end, that she had been snatched from him, he slowly mounted the staircase to the towers, that staircase which he had ascended with so much eagerness and triumph on the day when he had saved her.
He passed those same places once more with drooping head, voiceless, tearless, almost breathless.
The church was again deserted, and had fallen back into its silence.
The archers had quitted it to track the sorceress in the city.
Quasimodo, left alone in that vast Notre-Dame, so besieged and tumultuous but a short time before, once more betook himself to the cell where the gypsy had slept for so many weeks under his guardianship.
As he approached it, he fancied that he might, perhaps, find her there.
When, at the turn of the gallery which opens on the roof of the side aisles, he perceived the tiny cell with its little window and its little door crouching beneath a great flying buttress like a bird’s nest under a branch, the poor man’s heart failed him, and he leaned against a pillar to keep from falling.
He imagined that she might have returned thither, that some good genius had, no doubt, brought her back, that this chamber was too tranquil, too safe, too charming for her not to be there, and he dared not take another step for fear of destroying his illusion.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “perchance she is sleeping, or praying.