Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

All at once, while he was reconnoitring the great city with that solitary eye which nature, as if by way of
compensation, had made so piercing that it almost supplied the deficiency of other organs in Quasimodo,
it struck him that there was something unusual in the appearance of the outline of the quay of the Veille
Pelleterie, that there was some movement at this point, that the line of the parapet which stood out black
against the whiteness of the water was not straight and still like that of the other quays, but that it
appeared to undulate like the waves of a river or the heads of a crowd in motion.
He thought this very peculiar. He redoubled his attention. The movement appeared to be coming
towards the city—not a light, however. It lasted some time on the quay, and then flowed away by degrees,
as if whatever was passing along was entering the interior of the island; then it ceased altogether, and
the line of the quay returned to its wonted straightness and immobility.
Just as Quasimodo was exhausting himself in conjectures, it seemed to him that the movement was
reappearing in the Rue du Parvis, which runs into the city in a straight line with the front of Notre Dame.
At last, despite the great darkness, he could descry the head of a column issuing from that street, and the
next instant a crowd spreading out into the square, of which he could distinguish nothing further than
that it was a crowd.
It was a fear-compelling spectacle. No doubt this strange procession, which seemed so anxious to cloak
itself under the profound darkness, preserved a silence no less profound. Still, some sound must have
escaped from it, were it only the tramp of feet. But even this sound did not reach the deaf hunchback, and
the great multitude, which he could only dimly see, but which he heard not at all, moving so near him,
seemed to him like an assemblage of the dead—mute, ghostly shapes, hovering in a mist—shadows in a
shade.
Then his former fears returned; the idea of an attempt against the gipsy girl presented itself once more
to his mind. He had a vague premonition of some violent situation approaching. At this critical moment
he held counsel with himself, reasoning with greater acumen and promptness than would have been
expected from so ill-organized a brain. Should he awaken the gipsy girl?—help her to escape? Which
way? The streets were blocked, the church was backed by the river—no boat—no egress. There remained
but one thing therefore—to face death on threshold of Notre Dame; to hold them off at least until
assistance came, supposing there were any to come, and not to disturb the slumbers of Esmeralda. The
unhappy girl would always be awakened early enough to die. This resolution once taken, he proceeded to
observe “the enemy” with greater calmness.
The crowd in the Parvis appeared to be increasing momentarily; though, seeing that the windows of the
streets and the Place remained closed, he concluded that they could not be making much noise. Suddenly
a light shone out, and in an instant seven or eight torches were waving above the heads, tossing their
plumes of flame through the darkness. By their light Quasimodo had a clear vision of an appalling band
of tatterdemalions—men and women—flocking into the Parvis, armed with scythes, pikes, pruning-forks,
partisans—their thousand blades glittering as they caught the fitful light—and here and there black
pitchforks furnishing horns to these hideous visages. He had a confused remembrance of that populace,
and thought to recognise in them the crowd which but a few months before had acclaimed him Pope of
Fools. A man holding a torch in one hand and a birch rod in the other was mounted on a corner post and
apparently haranguing the multitude, and at the same time the ghostly army performed some evolutions
as if taking up a position round the church. Quasimodo picked up his lantern and descended to the
platform between the towers to observe more closely and deliberate on the means of defence.