The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [211]
The Vagrants continued to arm, whispering together as they did so, at the other end of the tavern.
“Poor Esmeralda!” said a gipsy; “she’s our sister. We must rescue her.”
“Is she still at Notre-Dame?” asked a Jewish-looking Cadger.
“Yes, in good sooth, she is!”
“Well, then, comrades,” cried the Cadger, “on to Notre-Dame! So much the more, that there are two statues in the chapel of Saint Féréol and Saint Ferrution.—one of Saint John the Baptist and the other of Saint Anthony,—of solid gold, the two together weighing seven golden marks and fifteen sterlings, and the silver-gilt pedestals weigh seventeen marks and five ounces. I know all about this; I am a jeweler.”
Here Jehan’s supper was served. He exclaimed, as he threw himself back upon the bosom of the girl next him:—
“By Saint Voult-de-Lucques, known to the world at large as Saint Goguelu, I am perfectly happy. Before me stands a fool staring at me with as smug a face as any archduke. And at my left elbow sits another, with teeth so long that they hide his chin. And then, too, I’m like Marshal de Gié at the siege of Pontoise,—my right wing rests upon an eminence. Body of Mahomet! comrade, you look very like a dealer in tennis-balls, and yet you dare to take your seat by my side! I am a noble, my friend. Nobility and trade cannot keep company. Get you gone! Hollo there, you fellows! don’t fall to fighting. What! Baptiste Croque-Oison, you who have so fine a nose, will you risk it against the heavy fists of yonder lout? Donkey! non cuiquam datum est habere nasum.dp You are indeed divine, Jacqueline Ronge-Oreille! ‘Tis a pity you’re so bald. Hollo! my name is Jehan Frollo, and my brother is an archdeacon. May the devil take him! Every word I say is true. When I turned vagabond, I cheerfully renounced the half of a house situated in paradise, which my brother promised me (Dimidiam domum in paradiso). I quote the Scriptures. I have an estate in fee in the Rue Tirechappe, and all the women are in love with me as truly as it is true that Saint Aloy sius was an excellent goldsmith, and that the five handicrafts of the good city of Paris are those of the tanners, leather-dressers, baldric-makers, purse-makers, and cordwainers, and that Saint Lawrence was broiled over egg-shells. I swear, comrades,—
‘That for a year I’ll drink no wine
If there be any lie in words of mine!’
My charmer, it is moonlight; only look yonder, through that loop-hole; how the wind rumples the clouds,—as I do your kerchief! Come, girls! snuff the children and the candles. Christ and Mahomet! what am I eating now, by Jupiter? Ho, there, you old jade! the hairs which are missing on the heads of your women, I find in your omelets. I say old girl! I like my omelets bald. May the devil put your nose out of joint! A fine hostelry of Beelzebub this, where the wenches comb their heads with forks!”
So saying, he smashed his plate upon the paved floor, and fell to singing at the top of his lungs:—
“And for this self of mine,
Now by the Blood Divine!
No creed I crave,
No law to save.
I have no fire,
I have no hut;
And I require
No faith to put
In monarch high
Or Deity!”
Meantime, Clopin Trouillefou had finished his distribution of arms. He approached Gringoire, who seemed plunged in deep thought, with his feet upon an andiron.
“Friend Pierre,” said the king of blacklegs, “what the devil are you thinking about?”
Gringoire turned to him with a melancholy smile.
“I love the fire, my dear lord; not for the trivial reason that the fire warms our feet or cooks our soup, but because it throws out sparks. I sometimes spend hours in watching the sparks fly up. I discover a thousand things in these stars that sprinkle the black chimney-back. These stars are worlds as well.”
“May I be struck by lightning if I understand you!” said the Vagrant. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I do not,” replied Gringoire.
Clopin then went up to the Duke of Egypt:—
“Comrade Mathias,