The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [181]
The two lovers did not listen to the worthy dowager. Phœbus again leaned on the back of his sweetheart’s chair,—a charming position, whence his impudent gaze pierced every opening in Fleur-de-Lys’ neckerchief. This neckerchief gaped so opportunely, and permitted him to note so many exquisite things, and to divine so many others, that, dazzled by her skin with its satiny gloss, he said to himself, “How can anybody ever fall in love with any but a fair-skinned woman?”
Both were silent. The young girl occasionally looked up at him with rapture and affection, and their hair mingled in a spring sunbeam.
“Phœbus,” suddenly said Fleur-de-Lys in a low voice, “we are to marry in three months; swear to me that you have never loved any other woman but me.”
“I swear it, lovely angel!” replied Phœbus, and his passionate gaze combined with the truthful accent of his voice to convince Fleur-de-Lys. Perhaps he even believed himself at that instant.
Meanwhile the good mother, charmed to see the lovers on such excellent terms, had left the room to attend to some domestic detail. Phoebus perceived this, and solitude so emboldened the adventurous captain that his brain soon filled with very strange ideas. Fleur-de-Lys loved him; he was her betrothed; she was alone with him; his former fancy for her revived, not in all its freshness, but in all its ardor. After all, it is no great crime to eat some of your fruit before it is harvested. I know not whether all these thoughts passed through his mind, but certain it is that Fleur-de-Lys was suddenly frightened by the expression of his eyes. She looked about her, and saw that her mother had gone.
“Heavens!” said she, blushing and confused, “how warm I feel!”
“Indeed, I think,” said Phœbus, “that it must be almost noon. The sun is very annoying; I had better close the curtains.”
“No, no,” cried the poor girl; “on the contrary, I want air.”
And like a deer which feels the hot breath of the pack, she rose, ran to the window, opened it, and rushed out upon the balcony.
Phoebus, vexed enough, followed her.
The square before the cathedral of Notre-Dame, upon which, as we know, the balcony looked, at this moment offered a strange and painful spectacle, which quickly changed the nature of the timid Fleur-de-Lys’ fright.
A vast throng, which overflowed into all the adjacent streets, completely blocked the square. The little wall, breast-high, which surrounded the central part, known as the Parvis, would not have sufficed to keep it clear if it had not been reinforced by a thick hedge of sergeants of the Onze-Vingts and arquebusiers, culverin in hand. Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebusiers, it remained empty. The entrance was guarded by a body of halberdiers bearing the bishop’s arms. The wide church-doors were closed, in odd contrast to the countless windows overlooking the square, which, open up to the very gables, revealed thousands of heads heaped one upon the other almost like the piles of cannon-balls in an artillery park.
The surface of this mob was grey, dirty, and foul. The spectacle which it was awaiting was evidently one of those which have the privilege of extracting and collecting all that is most unclean in the population. Nothing could be more hideous than the noise which arose from that swarm of soiled caps and filthy headgear. In that crowd there was more laugher than shouting; there were more women than men.
Now and then some sharp, shrill voice pierced the general uproar.
“Hollo! Mahiet Baliffre. Will she be hung yonder?”
“Fool! that is where she’s to do penance in her shift. The priest