Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

He completed his toilet dejectedly. An idea occurred to him as he was lacing his boots which he at first
rejected: it returned, however, and he put on his vest wrong side out, a sure sign of a violent inward
struggle. At length he cast his cap vehemently on the ground, and exclaimed: “Be it so! the worst has
come to the worst—I shall go to my brother. I shall catch a sermon, I know, but also I shall catch a crown
piece.”
He threw himself hastily into his fur-edged gown, picked up his cap, and rushed out with an air of
desperate resolve.
He turned down the Rue de la Harpe towards the City. Passing the Rue de la Huchette, the odour wafted
from those splendid roasting-spits which turned incessantly, tickled his olfactory nerves, and he cast a
lustful eye into the Cyclopean kitchen which once extorted from the Franciscan monk, Calatigiron, the
pathetic exclamation: “Veramente, queste rotisserie sono cosa stupenda!” But Jehan had not the
wherewithal to obtain a breakfast, so with a profound sigh he passed on under the gateway of the
Petit-Châtelet, the enormous double trio of massive towers guarding the entrance to the City.
He did not even take time to throw the customary stone at the dishonoured statue of that Perinet Leclerc
who betrayed the Paris of Charles VI to the English, a crime which his effigy, its face all battered with
stones and stained with mud, expiated during three centuries at the corner of the streets de la Harpe and
de Bussy, as on an everlasting pillory.
Having crossed the Petit-Pont and walked down the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, Jehan de Molendino
found himself in front of Notre Dame. Then all his indecision returned, and he circled for some minutes
round the statue of “Monsieur Legris,” repeating to himself with a tortured mind:
“The sermon is certain, the florin is doubtful.”
He stopped a beadle who was coming from the cloister. “Where is Monsieur the Archdeacon of Josas?”
“In his secret cell in the tower, I believe,” answered the man; “but I counsel you not to disturb him,
unless you come from some one such as the Pope or the King himself.”
Jehan clapped his hands.
“Bédiable! what a magnificent chance for seeing the famous magician’s cave!”
This decided him, and he advanced resolutely through the little dark doorway, and began to mount the
spiral staircase of Saint-Gilles, which leads to the upper stories of the tower.
“We shall see!” he said as he proceeded. “By the pangs of the Virgin! it must be a curious place, this
cell which my reverend brother keeps so strictly concealed. They say he lights up hell’s own fires there
on which to cook the philosopher’s stone. Bédieu! I care no more for the philospher’s stone than for a
pebble; and I’d rather find on his furnace an omelet of Easter eggs in lard, than the biggest philosopher’s
stone in the world!”
Arrived at the gallery of the colonnettes, he stopped a moment to take breath and to call down ten
million cartloads of devils on the interminable stairs. He then continued his ascent by the narrow
doorway of the northern tower, now prohibited to the public. A moment or two after passing the belfry,
he came to a small landing in a recess with a low Gothic door under the vaulted roof, while a loophole
opposite in the circular wall of the staircase enabled him to distinguish its enormous lock and powerful