The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [201]
Every night his fevered imagination pictured Esmeralda in all those attitudes which had stirred his blood most quickly. He saw her stretched across the body of the wounded captain, her eyes closed, her beautiful bare throat covered with Phoebus’s blood, at that moment of rapture when he himself had pressed upon her pale lips that kiss which had burned the unhappy girl, half dead though she was, like a living coal. He again saw her disrobed by the savage hands of the executioners, exposing and enclosing in the buskin with its iron screws her tiny foot, her plump and shapely leg, and her white and supple knee.
He again saw that ivory knee alone left uncovered by Torterue’s horrid machine. Finally, he figured to himself the young girl in her shift, the rope about her neck, her shoulders bare, her feet bare, almost naked, as he saw her on what was to have been her last day on earth. These voluptuous pictures made him clinch his hands, and caused a shudder to run from head to foot.
One night, especially, they so cruelly heated his virgin and priestly blood that he bit his pillow, leaped from his bed, threw a surplice over his shirt, and left his cell, lamp in hand, but half-dressed, wild and haggard, with flaming eyes.
He knew where to find the key to the Porte-Rouge, which led from the cloisters to the church, and he always carried about him, as the reader knows, a key to the tower stairs.
CHAPTER VI
The Key to the Porte-Rouge (continued)
That night Esmeralda fell asleep in her cell, full of peace, hope, and pleasant thoughts. She had been asleep for some time, dreaming, as she always did, of Phoebus, when she fancied she heard a noise. Her sleep was light and restless,—a bird’s sleep. A mere trifle roused her. She opened her eyes. The night was very dark. Still, she saw a face peering in at the window; the vision was lighted up by a lamp. When this face saw that Esmeralda was looking at it, it blew out the lamp. Still, the girl had had time to catch a glimpse of it; her eyes closed in terror.
“Oh,” said she, in a feeble voice, “the priest!”
All her past misery flashed upon her with lightning speed. She sank back upon her bed, frozen with fear.
A moment after, she felt a touch which made her shudder so that she started up wide awake and furious.
The priest had glided to her side. He clasped her in his arms.
She tried to scream, but could not.
“Begone, monster! Begone, assassin!” she said at last, in a low voice trembling with wrath and horror.
“Mercy! mercy!” murmured the priest, pressing his lips to her shoulders.
She seized his bald head in both hands by the hairs which remained, and strove to prevent his kisses as if they had been bites.
“Mercy!”repeated the unfortunate man. “If you knew what my love for you is! It is fire, molten lead, a thousand knives driven into my heart!”
And he held her arms with superhuman strength. She cried desperately: “Release me, or I shall spit in your face!”
He released her. “Degrade me, strike me, do your worst! do what you will! but have mercy! love me!”
Then she struck him with the impotent fury of a child. She clinched her lovely hands to bruise his face. “Demon, begone!”
“Love me! love me! have pity!” cried the poor priest, clasping her, and returning her blows with caresses.
All at once she felt him stronger than she.
“No more of this!” he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth.
She lay conquered, crushed, and quivering in his arms, at his mercy. She felt a wanton hand wandering over her. She made one last effort, and shrieked: “Help! help! a vampire! a vampire!”
No one came. Djali alone was awakened, and bleated piteously.
“Silence!” said the panting priest.
Suddenly, in her struggle, as she fought upon the floor, the gipsy’s hand encountered something cold and metallic. It was Quasimodo’s whistle. She seized it with a convulsion of hope, raised it to her lips, and blew with all her remaining strength. The whistle gave forth a