Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

“When all’s said and done,” pursued Grainier with exaltation, “what is death? An uncomfortable
moment—a tollgate—the transit from little to nothing. Some one having asked Cercidas of Megalopolis
whether he could die willingly, he replied, ‘Wherefore not? for after my death I should see those great
men: Pythagoras among the philosophers, Hecatæus among the historians, Homer among the poets,
Olympus among the musicians.’”
The Archdeacon held out his hand. “It is settled, then? You will come to-morrow?”
This action brought Grainier down to the realities. “Faith no!” said he in the tone of a man who
awakens. “Let myself be hanged?—’tis too absurd! I will not.”
“God be with you, then!” and the Archdeacon muttered between his teeth, “We shall meet again!”
“I have no desire to meet that devil of man again,” thought Grainier. He ran after Dom Claude. “Hark
you, Monsieur the Archdeacon, no offence between old friends! You are interested in this girl—my wife I
mean—that’s very well. You have devised a stratagem for getting her sagely out of Notre Dame, but your
plan is highly unpleasant for me, Grainier. If I only had another to suggest!—Let me tell you that a most
luminous inspiration has this instant come to me. How if I had a practicable scheme for extricating her
from this tight place without exposing my own neck to the slightest danger of a slip-knot, what would you
say? Would not that suffice you? Is it absolutely necessary that I should be hanged to satisfy you?”
The priest was tearing at the buttons of his soutance with impatience. “Oh, babbling stream of words!
Out with thy plan!”
“Yes,” said Grainier, speaking to himself and rubbing his nose with his forefinger in sign of deep
cogitation; “that’s it! The vagabonds are good-hearted fellows! The tribe of Egypt loves her. They will
rise at a word. Nothing easier. A surprise—and under cover of the disorder, carry her off—perfectly
easily! This very next night. Nothing would please them better.”
“The plan—speak!” said the priest, shaking him.
Grainier turned to him majestically.
“Let me be! see you not that I am composing?” He ruminated again for a few moments, then began to
clap his hands at his thought. “Admirable! he cried, “an assured success!”
“The plan!” repeated Claude, enraged.
Grainier was radiant. “Hist!” said he, “let me tell it you in a whisper. ’Tis a counterplot that’s really
brilliant, and will get us all clear out of the affair. Pardieu! you must admit that I’m no fool.”
He stopped short. “Ah, but the little goat—is she with the girl?”
“Yes—yes—devil take thee! go on!”
“They would hang her too, would they not?”
“What’s that to me?”
“Yes, they would hang her. They hanged a sow last month, sure enough. The hangman likes that—he
east the beast afterward. Hang my pretty Djali! Poor sweet lamb!”