The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [61]
“What do you want, Djali?” said the gipsy, hastily, as if roused suddenly.
“The creature is hungry,” said Gringoire, delighted to open the conversation.
Esmeralda began to crumple some bread, which Djali nibbled daintily from the hollow of her hand.
However, Gringoire gave her no time to resume her reverie. He risked a delicate question:—
“Then you don’t want me for your husband?”
The young girl looked steadily at him, and replied, “No.”
“For your lover?” continued Gringoire.
She pouted, and answered, “No.”
“For your friend?” went on Gringoire.
She looked at him fixedly once more, and after an instant’s reflection, said, “Perhaps.”
This “perhaps,” so dear to philosophers, emboldened Gringoire.
“Do you know what friendship is?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the gipsy; “it is to be brother and sister; two souls which meet without mingling, two fingers of one hand.”
“And love?” continued Gringoire.
“Oh, love!” said she, and her voice trembled and her eye brightened. “That is to be two and yet but one. A man and a woman blended into an angel. It is heaven itself.”7
The street dancer assumed a beauty, as she spoke, which struck Gringoire strangely, and seemed to him in perfect harmony with the almost Oriental exaltation of her words. Her pure rosy lips half smiled; her serene and innocent brow was clouded for the moment by her thought, as when a mirror is dimmed by a breath; and from her long, dark, drooping lashes flashed an ineffable light, which lent her profile that ideal sweetness which Raphael has since found at the mystic meeting-point of the virgin, the mother, and the saint.
Nevertheless, Gringoire kept on,—
“What must one be to please you, then?”
“He must be a man.”
“And I,” said he,—“what am I?”
“A man with a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and golden spurs on his heels.”
“Good!” said Gringoire; “dress makes the man. Do you love any one?”
“As a lover?”
“As a lover.”
She looked pensive for a moment; then she said with a peculiar expression, “I shall know soon.”
“Why not tonight?” said the poet, tenderly; “why not me?”
She cast a serious glance at him.
“I can only love a man who can protect me.”
Gringoire flushed, and was silent. It was evident that the young girl alluded to the slight assistance which he had afforded her in the critical situation in which she had found herself a couple of hours previous. This memory, blotted out by the other adventures of the evening, returned to him. He struck his brow.
“By-the-bye, mademoiselle, I ought to have begun there. Forgive me my foolish distractions. How did you manage to escape from Quasimodo’s claws?”
This question made the gipsy shudder.
“Oh, the horrid hunchback!” she cried, hiding her face in her hands.
And she shivered as if icy cold.
“Horrid, indeed,” said Gringoire, not dropping the subject; “but how did you contrive to escape him?”
Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and was silent.
“Do you know why he pursued you?” continued Gringoire, trying to get an answer by a roundabout way.
“I don’t know,” said the girl. And she added quickly, “But you followed me too; why did you follow me?”
“In good faith,” replied Gringoire, “I have forgotten.”
There was a pause. Gringoire was scratching the table with his knife. The girl smiled, and seemed to be gazing at something through the wall. All at once she began to sing in a voice which was scarcely articulate, She broke off abruptly, and began to fondle Djali.
“Quando las pintadas aves
Mudas estan, y la tierra—”aq
“That’s a pretty creature of yours,” said Gringoire.
“It is my sister,” she replied.
“Why do they call you ‘Esmeralda?’ ” the poet ventured to ask.
“I’ve no idea.”
“But why do they?”
She drew from her bosom a small oblong bag fastened to her neck by a string of red seeds. This bag gave forth a strong smell of camphor; it was made of green silk, and had in the center a large bit of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.
“Perhaps it is