Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

firmly seated than when it has no sort of reason.
Assuredly Esmeralda could not think of the captain without pain. Assuredly it was dreadful that he too
should have been deceived, should have believed it possible that the dagger-thrust had been dealt by her
who would have given a thousand lives for him. And yet he was not so much to blame, for had she not
confessed her crime? Had she not yielded, weak woman that she was, to the torture? The fault was hers,
and hers alone. She ought rather to have let them tear the nails from her feet than such an avowal from
her lips. Still, could she but see Phœbus once again, for a single minute, it needed but a word, a look, to
undeceive him, to bring him back to her. She did not doubt it for a moment. She closed her eyes to the
meaning of various singular things, or put a plausible construction on them: the chance presence of
Phœbus on the day of her penance, the lady who stood beside him—his sister, no doubt. The explanation
was most unlikely, but she contented herself with it because she wished to believe that Phœbus still loved
her, and her alone. Had he not sworn it to her? And what more did she need—simple and credulous
creature that she was? Besides, throughout the whole affair, were not appearances far more strongly
against her than against him? So she waited—she hoped.
Added to this, the church itself, the vast edifice wrapping her round on all sides, protecting, saving her,
was a sovereign balm. The solemn lines of its architecture, the religious attitude of all the objects by
which the girl was surrounded, the serene and pious thoughts that breathed, so to speak, from every pore
of these venerable stones, acted upon her unceasingly. Sounds arose from it, too, of such blessedness and
such majesty that they soothed that tortured spirit. The monotonous chants of the priests and the
responses of the people—sometimes an inarticulate murmur, sometimes a roll of thunder; the
harmonious trembling of the windows, the blast of the organ like a hive of enormous bees, that entire
orchestra with its gigantic gamut ascending and descending incessantly—from the voice of the multitude
to that of a single bell—deadened her memory, her imagination, her pain. The bells in especial lulled
her. A potent magnetism flowed from the vast metal domes and rocked her on its waves.
Thus, each succeeding morn found her calmer, less pale, breathing more freely. And as the wounds of
her spirit healed, her outward grace and beauty bloomed forth again, but richer, more composed. Her
former character also returned—something even of her gaiety, her pretty pout, her love for her goat, her
pleasure in singing, her delicate modesty. She was careful to retire into the most secluded corner of her
cell when dressing in the mornings, less some one from the neighbouring attics should see her through
the little window.
When her dreams of Phœbus left her the leisure, the gipsy sometimes let her thoughts stray to
Quasimodo—the only link, the only means of communication with mankind, with life, that remained to
her. Hapless creature! she was more cut off from the world than Quasimodo himself. She knew not what
to think of the singular friend whom chance had given her. She often reproached herself that hers was
not the gratitude that could veil her eyes, but it was useless—she could not accustom herself to the poor
bell-ringer. He was too repulsive.
She had left the whistle he gave her lying on the ground; which, however, did not prevent Quasimodo
from appearing from time to time during the first days. She did her very utmost not to turn away in
disgust when he brought her the basket of provisions and the pitcher of water, but he instantly perceived
the slightest motion of the kind, and hastened sorrowfully away.
Once he happened to come at the moment she was caressing Djali. He stood a few minutes pensively
contemplating the charming group, and at last said, shaking his heavy, misshapen head: