Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

Suddenly she felt the hand of the unknown grasp hers—a cold, strong hand. Her teeth chattered, she
turned paler than the moonbeams that shone upon her. The man said not a word, but strode away in the
direction of the Place de Grève, still holding her firmly by the hand.
At that moment she had a dim sense of the irresistible force of destiny. All power of will forsook her;
she let him drag her along, running to keep pace with him: the ground at this part of the quay rose
somewhat, but to her they seemed to be rushing down an incline.
She looked on all sides—not a single passenger to be seen; the quay was absolutely deserted. She heard
no sound, she perceived no sign of life save in the glaring and tumultuous city, from which she was only
separated by an arm of the river, and from which her own name reached her coupled with shouts of
death. All the rest of Paris lay around her shadowy and silent as the grave.
Meanwhile the stranger was dragging her along in the same silence and at the same rapid pace. She
had no recollection of any of the streets they traversed. Passing a lighted window she made a last effort,
and stopping suddenly, screamed, “Help!”
The citizen at the window opened it, and showing himself in his night-shirt and a lamp in his hand,
looked out stupidly on to the quay, muttered a few words which she could not catch, and closed his
shutter once more. Her last ray of hope was extinguished.
The man in black proffered no remark; he held her fast and quickened his pace. She offered no further
resistance, but followed him limp and hopeless.
From time to time she gathered sufficient strength to ask in a voice broken by the roughness of the
pavement and the breathless haste of their motion: “Who are you? Who are you?” But there was no
reply.
In this manner they presently reached an open square of considerable size. The moon shone faintly out;
a sort of black cross was dimly visible standing in the middle. It was a gibbet. She saw this, and in a flash
knew where she was. It was the Place de Grève.
The man stood still, turned towards her and lifted his hood. “Oh,” she stammered, petrified with
horror, “I knew it must be he!”
It was the priest. He looked like a wraith in the spectral moonlight.
“Listen,” said he; and she shivered at the sound of the ill-omened voice that she had not heard for so
long. “Listen,” he went on, speaking with that broken and gasping utterance which bespeaks the
profoundest inward upheaval. “We have arrived at our destination. I would speak with thee. This is the
Grève; we have reached the extreme limit. Fate has delivered each of us into the hand of the other. Thou
shalt have the disposing of my soul; I, of thy life. Here is a place and an hour beyond which there is no
seeing. Listen to me, then. I will tell thee—but first, name not thy Phœbus to me. (And while he spoke thus
he paced to and fro, like a man incapable of standing still, dragging her with him.) Speak not of him!
Mark me, if thou utterest his name, I know not what I shall do, but it will be something terrible.”
Having relieved his mind of this, he stood motionless, like a body finding its centre of gravity. But his
agitation was in nowise diminished; his voice sank deeper and deeper.
“Turn not away from me thus. Hear me; ’tis a matter of the utmost import. First, this is what has