The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [199]
“Come, Captain, it is a woman who awaits you.” He added with an effort: “A woman who loves you.”
“Arrant knave!” said the captain; “do you think I am obliged to go to all the women who love me, or say they do? And how if by chance she looks like you, you screech-owl? Tell her who sent you that I am about to marry, and that she may go to the devil!”
“Hear me!” cried Quasimodo, supposing that with one word he could conquer his hesitation; “come, my lord! it is the gipsy girl, whom you know!”
These words did indeed make a strong impression upon Phoebus, but not of the nature which the deaf man expected. It will be remembered that our gallant officer retired with Fleur-de-Lys some moments before Quasimodo rescued the prisoner from the hands of Charmolue. Since then, during his visits to the Gondelaurier house he had carefully avoided all mention of the woman, whose memory was painful to him; and on her side, Fleur-de-Lys had not thought it politic to tell him that the gipsy still lived. Phoebus therefore supposed poor “Similar” to have died some two or three months before. Let us add that for some moments past the captain had been pondering on the exceeding darkness of the night, the supernatural ugliness and sepulchral tones of the strange messenger, the fact that it was long past midnight, that the street was as deserted as on the night when the goblin monk addressed him, and that his horse snorted at the sight of Quasimodo.
“The gipsy girl!” he exclaimed, almost terrified: “pray, do you come from the other world?”
And he placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“Quick! quick!” said the deaf man, striving to urge on the horse; “this way!”
Phoebus dealt him a vigorous kick.
Quasimodo’s eye flashed. He made a movement to attack the captain. Then drawing himself up, he said,—
“Oh, how fortunate it is for you that there is some one who loves you!”
He emphasized the words some one, and releasing the horse’s bridle, added,—
“Begone!”
Phoebus clapped spurs to his horse, with an oath. Quasimodo saw him plunge down the street and disappear in the darkness.
“Oh,” murmured the poor deaf man, “to refuse that!”
He returned to Notre-Dame, lighted his lamp, and climbed the tower. As he had supposed, the gipsy was still in the same place.
As soon as she caught sight of him, she ran to meet him.
“Alone!” she cried mournfully, clasping her lovely hands.
“I could not find him,” said Quasimodo, coldly.
“You should have waited all night,” she replied indignantly.
He saw her angry gesture, and understood the reproach.
“I will watch better another time,” said he, hanging his head.
“Go!” said she.
He left her. She was offended with him. He would rather be maltreated by her than distress her. He kept all the pain for himself.
From that day forth the gipsy saw him no more. He ceased to visit her cell. At most, she sometimes caught a glimpse of the ringer on the top of a tower, gazing sadly at her. But as soon as she saw him, he disappeared.
We must own that she was but little troubled by this willful absence of the poor hunchback. In her secret heart she thanked him for it. However, Quasimodo did not lie under any delusion on this point.
She no longer saw him, but she felt the presence of a good genius around her. Her provisions were renewed by an invisible hand while she slept. One morning she found a cage of birds on her window-sill. Over her cell there was a piece of carving which alarmed her. She had more than once shown this feeling before Quasimodo. One morning (for all these things occurred at night) she no longer saw it; it was broken off. Any one who had climbed up to it must have risked his life.
Sometimes in the evening she heard a voice, hidden behind the wind-screen of the belfry, sing, as if to lull her to sleep, a weird, sad song, verses without rhyme, such as a deaf person might make:—
“Heed not the face,
Maiden, heed the heart.
The heart of a fine young man is oft deformed.
There are hearts where Love finds no abiding
place.
“Maiden, the pine-tree is not fair,