at the time of the plague. And on it, resplendent in cope, crosier, and mitre, sat enthroned the new Pope of the Fools, Quasimodo, the hunchback, the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame.
Each section of this grotesque procession had its special music. The gipsies scraped their balafos5
and banged their tambourines. The Argotiers—not a very musical race—had got no further than the viol, the cow-horn, and the Gothic rebec of the twelfth century. The Empire of Galilee was not much better—scarcely that you distinguished in its music the squeak of some primitive fiddle dating from the infancy of the art, and still confined to the re-la-mi. But it was round the Fools’ Pope that all the musical treasures of the age were gathered in one glorious discordance— treble rebecs, tenor rebecs, not to mention flutes and brasses. Alas, our readers will remember that this was Gringoire’s orchestra.It would be difficult to convey an idea of the degree of beatitude and proud satisfaction which had gradually spread over the sad and hideous countenance of Quasimodo during his progress from the Palais to the Place de Gréve. It was the first gleam of self-approbation he had ever experienced. Hitherto, humiliation, disdain, disgust alone had been his portion. Deaf as he was, he relished like any true Pope the acclamations of the multitude, whom he hated because he felt they hated him. What matter that his people were a rabble of Fools, of halt and maimed, of thieves, of beggars? They were a people and he was a sovereign. And he accepted seriously all this ironical applause, all this mock reverence, with which, however, we are bound to say, there was mingled a certain amount of perfectly genuine fear. For the hunchback was very strong, and though bow-legged, was active, and though deaf, was resentful—three qualities which have a way of tempering ridicule.
For the rest, it is highly improbable that the new Pope of Fools was conscious either of the sentiments he experienced or of those which he inspired. The mind lodged in that misshapen body must inevitably be itself defective and dim, so that whatever he felt at that moment, he was aware of it but in a vague, uncertain, confused way. But joy pierced the gloom and pride predominated. Around that sombre and unhappy countenance there was a halo of light.
It was therefore not without surprise and terror that suddenly, just as Quasimodo in this semi-ecstatic state was passing the Maison-aux-Piliers in his triumphant progress, they saw a man dart from the crowd, and with a gesture of hate, snatch from his hand the crosier of gilt wood, the emblem of his mock papacy.
This bold person was the same man who, a moment before, had scared the poor gipsy girl with his words of menace and hatred. He wore the habit of an ecclesiastic, and the moment he disengaged himself from the crowd, Gringoire, who had not observed him before, recognised him. “Tiens!” said he with a cry of astonishment, “it is my master in Hermetics, Dom Claude Frollo the Archdeacon. What the devil can he want with that one-eyed brute? He will assuredly be devoured!”
Indeed, a cry of terror rose from the crowd, for the formidable hunchback had leapt from his seat, and the women turned their heads that they might not see the Archdeacon torn limb from limb.
He made one bound towards the priest, looked in his face, and fell on his knees before him.
The priest then snatched off his tiara, broke his crosier in two, and rent his cope of tinsel, Quasimodo remaining on his knees with bent head and clasped hands.
On this there began a strange dialogue between the two of signs and gestures, for neither of them uttered a word: the priest standing angry, menacing, masterful; Quasimodo prostrate before him, humbled and suppliant; and yet Quasimodo could certainly have crushed the priest with his finger and thumb.
At last, with a rough shake of the dwarf’s powerful shoulder, the Archdeacon made him a sign to rise and follow him.
Quasimodo rose to his feet.
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