The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [127]
Thus, “public vengeance,” as the legal jargon still styles it, once satisfied, a thousand private spites took their turn at revenge. Here, as in the Great Hall, the women made themselves especially conspicuous. All bore him a grudge,—some for his mischief, others for his ugliness. The latter were the more furious.
“Oh, you image of Antichrist!” said one.
“Broomstick-rider!” cried another.
“What a fine tragic face!” yelled a third. “It would surely make you the Pope of Fools if today were only yesterday.”
“That’s right,” added an old woman. “This is the pillory face. When shall we have the gallows face?”
“When shall we see you buried a hundred feet below ground, with your big bell upon your head, you cursed bell-ringer?”
“And to think that it’s this demon that rings the Angelus!”
“Oh, you deaf man! you blind man! you hunchback! you monster!”
And the two students, Jehan du Moulin and Robin Poussepain, sang at the top of their voices the old popular refrain:—
“A halter for the gallows-bird!
A fagot for the ugly ape!”
Countless other insults rained upon him, mingled with hoots, curses, laughter, and occasional stones.
Quasimodo was deaf, but his sight was capital, and the fury of the mob was no less forcibly painted on their faces than in their words. Besides, the stones which struck him explained the peals of laughter.
He bore it for a time; but little by little his patience, which had resisted the torturer’s whip, gave way, and rebelled against all these insect stings. The Asturian bull, which pays but little heed to the attacks of the picador, is maddened by the dogs and the banderillos.
At first he glanced slowly and threateningly around the crowd; but, bound fast as he was, his glance was impotent to drive away those flies which galled his wounds. Then he struggled in his fetters, and his frantic efforts made the old pillory wheel creak upon its timbers. All this only increased the shouts and derision of the crowd.
Then the wretched man, unable to break the collar which held him chained like a wild beast, became quiet again; only at intervals a sigh of rage heaved his breast. His face showed no trace of mortification or shame. He was too far removed from the existing state of society, and too nearly allied to a state of nature, to know what shame was. Besides, it is doubtful if infamy be a thing which can be felt by one afflicted with that degree of deformity. But rage, hate, despair, slowly veiled the hideous face with a cloud which grew darker and darker, more and more heavily charged with an electricity revealed by countless flashes from the eye of the Cyclop.
However, this cloud was lightened for a moment as a mule passed through the crowd, bearing a priest on his back. As soon as he saw that mule and that priest, the poor sufferer’s face softened. The fury which convulsed it gave way to a strange smile, full of ineffable sweetness, affection, and tenderness. As the priest approached, this smile became more pronounced, more distinct, more radiant. It was as if the unhappy man hailed the coming of a Savior. Yet, when the mule was near enough to the pillory for his rider to recognize the prisoner, the priest cast down his eyes, turned back abruptly, spurred his animal on either side as if in haste to avoid humiliating appeals, and very far from anxious to be greeted and recognized by a poor devil in such a plight.
The priest was the archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo.
The cloud grew darker than ever upon the face of Quasimodo. The smile lingered for some time, although it became bitter, dejected, profoundly sad.
Time passed. He had been there at least an hour and a half, wounded, ill-treated, incessantly mocked, and almost stoned to death.
Suddenly he again struggled in his chains with renewed despair, which made all the timbers that held him quiver; and