The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [249]
At that instant the voice of the priest—that infernal voice—passed very close to the cell, shouting,—
“This way, Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers!”
At that name, at that voice, Esmeralda, huddling in her corner, made a movement.
“Do not stir!” said Gudule.
She had hardly finished speaking when a riotous crowd of men, swords, and horses, halted outside the cell. The mother rose hastily, and placed herself before the window in such a way as to cut off all view of the room. She saw a numerous band of armed men, on foot and on horseback, drawn up in the Place de Grève. The officer in command sprang to the ground and came towards her.
“Old woman,” said this man, who had an atrocious face, “we are looking for a witch, that we may hang her. We were told that you had her.”
The poor mother assumed the most indifferent air that she could, and answered,—
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The other replied, “Zounds! Then what was that frightened archdeacon talking about? Where is he?”
“Sir,” said a soldier, “he has disappeared.”
“Come, now, old hag,” resumed the commanding officer, “don’t lie! A witch was left in your care. What have you done with her?”
The recluse dared not deny everything, lest she should rouse suspicion, and answered in a surly but seemingly truthful tone,—
“If you mean a tall girl who was thrust into my hands just now, I can only tell you that she bit me, and I let her go. There. Now leave me in peace.”
The officer pulled a wry face.
“Don’t lie to me, old scarecrow!” he replied. “I am Tristan l‘Hermite, and I am the friend of the king. Tristan l’Hermite, do you hear?” he added looking round the Place de Grève, “‘Tis a name familiar here.”
“You might be Satan l‘Hermite,” responded Gudule, whose hopes began to rise, “and I could tell you nothing more, and should be no more afraid of you.”
“Odds bodikins!” said Tristan, “here’s a vixen for you! Ah, so the witch girl escaped! And which way did she go?”
Gudule answered indifferently,—
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan turned his head, and signed to his troop to prepare to resume their march. The recluse breathed more freely.
“Sir,” suddenly said an archer, “pray ask this old sorceress how the bars of her window came to be so twisted and broken.”
This question revived the miserable mother’s anguish. Still, she did not lose all presence of mind.
“They were always so,” she stammered.
“Nonsense!” rejoined the archer; “only yesterday they formed a beautiful black cross which inspired pious thoughts in all who looked upon it.”
Tristan cast a side-glance at the recluse.
“It seems to me that our friend looks embarrassed.”
The unfortunate woman felt that everything depended upon her putting a good face on the matter, and, with death in her soul, she began to laugh. Mothers have such courage.
“Pooh!” said she, “that man is drunk. ‘Twas more than a year ago that the tail of a cart full of stones was backed into my window and destroyed the grating. And, what’s more, I scolded the carter roundly.”
“That’s true,” said another archer; “I was here at the time.”
There are always people everywhere who have seen everything. This unexpected testimony from the archer encouraged the recluse, who during this interrogatory felt as if she were crossing a precipice on the sharp edge of a knife.
But she was condemned to a continual alternation between hope and fear.
“If it was done by a cart,” returned the first soldier, “the broken ends of the bars would have been driven inward; but they are bent outward.”
“Ho! ho!” said Tristan; “your nose is as sharp as that of any inquisitor at the Châtelet. Answer him, old woman!”
“Good heavens!” she cried, at her wits’ end, and in a voice which despite all her efforts