The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [155]
The captain was brave, and would not have cared a farthing for a thief with a bludgeon in his hand; but this walking statue, this petrified man, froze his very blood. At that time there were current in society strange stories of the spectral monk, who prowled the streets of Paris by night. These tales now came confusedly to his mind, and for some moments he stood stupefied; at last he broke the silence with a forced laugh, saying,—
“Sir, if you are a robber, as I hope, you remind me of a heron attacking a nutshell; I am the son of a ruined family, my dear fellow. You’ve come to the wrong shop; you’d better go next door. In the chapel of that college there is a piece of the true cross set in silver.”
The hand of the shadow was stretched from under the cloak, and swooped down upon Phœbus’s arm with the grip of an eagle’s talons. At the same time the shadow spoke:—
“Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers!”
“What! the devil!” said Phoebus; “do you know my name?”
“I not only know your name,” replied the man in the cloak, with his sepulchral voice, “but I know that you have a rendezvous this evening!”
“Yes,” answered the astonished Phœbus.
“At seven o‘clock.”
“In fifteen minutes.”
“At La Falourdel’s.”
“Exactly so.”
“The old hag of the Pont Saint-Michel.”
“Saint Michel the archangel, as the Pater Noster says.”
“Impious wretch!” muttered the spectre. “With a woman?”
“Confiteor.”
“Whose name is—”
“Esmeralda,” said Phoebus, cheerfully. He had gradually recovered all his unconcern.
At this name the shadow’s claws shook the captain’s arm furiously.
“Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers, you lie!”
Any one who could at this moment have seen the captain’s flaming face, his backward bound, so violent that it released him from the vise-like grasp that held him, the haughty air with which he clapped his hand to his sword-hilt, and the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak in the presence of this rage,—any one who saw all this would have trembled with fear. It was something like the fight between Don Juan and the statue.
“Christ and Satan!” cried the captain; “that is a word which seldom greets the ears of a Châteaupers! You dare not repeat it!”
“You lie!” said the shadow, coldly.
The captain gnashed his teeth. Spectre monk, phantom, superstitions, all were forgotten at this instant. He saw nothing but a man and an insult.
“Ha! it is well!” he stammered in a voice stifled by rage. He drew his sword; then, stuttering,—for anger makes a man tremble as well as fear, “Here! on the spot! Now then! swords! swords! Blood upon these stones!”
But the other never stirred. When he saw his adversary on his guard, and ready to burst with wrath, he said,—
“Captain Phœbus,”—and his voice quivered with bitterness,—“you forget your rendezvous.”
The fits of passion of such men as Phoebus are like boiling milk,—a drop of cold water is enough to check their fury. At these simple words the sword which glittered in the captain’s hand was lowered.
“Captain,” continued the man, “tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, in a month, in ten years, you will find me ready to cut your throat; but keep your rendezvous first.”
“Indeed,” said Phoebus, as if trying to compound with his conscience, “a sword and a girl are both charming things to encounter by appointment; but I do not see why I should miss one for the sake of the other, when I might have both.”
He replaced his sword in his scabbard.
“Go to your rendezvous,” replied the stranger.
“Sir,” answered Phœbus with some embarrassment, “many thanks for your courtesy. You are right in saying that tomorrow will be time enough for us to cut