The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [239]
Little by little, however, the first fumes of fear vanished; from the ever-increasing tumult, and from various other tokens of reality, she felt that she was beset, not by specters, but by human beings. Then her terror, without being augmented, changed its nature. She reflected upon the possibility of a popular revolt to tear her from her refuge. The idea of again losing life, hope, and Phoebus, whom she still hoped to win in the future, her own absolute defenselessness, all flight cut off, no help at hand, her forlorn condition, her isolation,—these thoughts and countless others overwhelmed her. She fell upon her knees, her face buried in the bed-clothes, her hands clasped above her head, full of agony and apprehension, and, gipsy, pagan, and idolater though she was, she began with sobs to entreat mercy of the good Christian God, and to pray to her hostess, Our Lady. For, believe in nothing though one may, there are moments in life when one belongs to the creed of whatever church is nearest.
She lay thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling indeed, far more than she prayed, chilled by the ever-advancing breath of that frantic mob, wholly ignorant of the meaning of their unbridled rage, knowing not what was on foot, what was being done, what object that throng had in view, but foreseeing some terrible issue.
In the midst of her anguish she heard steps close at hand. She turned. Two men, one of whom carried a lantern, entered her cell. She uttered a faint shriek.
“Fear nothing,” said a voice which was not unknown to her; “it is I.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Pierre Gringoire.”
That name calmed her fears. She raised her eyes, and saw that it was indeed the poet; but beside him stood a black figure veiled from head to foot, which silenced her.
“Ah!” replied Gringoire in reproachful tones, “Djali knew me before you did!”
The little goat, in fact, did not wait for Gringoire to pronounce his name. He had no sooner entered, than she rubbed herself fondly against his knees, covering the poet with caresses and white hairs,—for she was shedding her coat. Gringoire returned her caresses.
“Who is that with you?” said the gipsy in a low voice.
“Never fear,” replied Gringoire; “it’s a friend of mine.”
Then the philosopher, placing his lantern on the ground, crouched upon the flagstones, and enthusiastically exclaimed, as he clasped Djali in his arms,—
“Oh, ‘tis a pretty creature, doubtless more remarkable for her neatness than her size, but ingenious, subtle, and learned as any grammarian of them all! Come, my Djali, let us see if you have forgotten any of your cunning tricks! Show us how Master Jacques Charmolue does—”
“The man in black would not let him finish. He stepped up to him and gave him a rude shove on the shoulder. Gringoire rose.
“True,” said he; “I forgot that we are in haste. Still, that’s no reason, master mine, for handling people so roughly. My dear child, your life is in danger, and Djali’s too. They want to hang you again. We are your friends, and are come hither to save you. Follow us.”
“Is it true?” cried she, distractedly.
“Yes, quite true. Come quickly!”
“I will,” she stammered. “But why doesn’t your friend speak?”
“Ah!” said Gringoire, “that’s because his father and mother were queer people, and brought him up to be silent.”
She was forced to rest content with this explanation. Gringoire took her by the hand; his companion picked up the lantern and went on before. The girl was dizzy with dread. She let them lead her away. The goat followed them with leaps of delight, so rejoiced to see Gringoire once more that she made him stumble every moment by thrusting her horns between his legs.
“Such is life,” said the philosopher at each escape from falling; “it is often our best friends who cause our downfall!”
They rapidly descended the tower stairs, traversed the church, full of solitude and gloom,