Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

against them with such force that one of the bars broke with a shower of sparks, and a second blow
completely smashed the old iron cross-bar that barricaded the hole. Then, using her whole force, she
succeeded in loosening and wrenching out the rusty stumps. There are moments when a woman’s hands
are possessed of superhuman strength.
The passage cleared—and it had taken her less than a minute to do it—she leaned out, seized her
daughter round the waist, and drew her into the cell.
“Come,” she murmured, “let me drag thee out of the pit.”
As soon as she had her daughter in the cell, she set her gently on the ground; then catching her up in
her arms again, as if she were still only the baby Agnes, she carried her to and fro in the narrow cell,
intoxicated, beside herself with joy, shouting, singing, kissing her daughter, babbling to her, laughing,
melting into tears—all at the same time, all with frenzied vehemence.
“My daughter! my daughter!” said she. “I have my daughter again—’tis she! God has given her back
to me. Hey there! come all of you! Is there anybody to see that I’ve got my daughter? Lord Jesus, how
beautiful she is! Thou hast made me wait fifteen years, oh, my God, but it was only that thou mightest
give her back to me so beautiful. And the gipsy women had not eaten her! Who told me that they had? My
little girl—my little one—kiss me. Those good gipsies! I love the gipsies. So it is thou indeed? And it was
that that made my heart leap every time thou didst pass by. And to think that I took it for hatred! Forgive
me, my Agnes, forgive me! Thou thoughtest me very wicked, didst thou not? I love thee. Hast thou then
that little mark still on thy neck? Let me see. Yes, she has it still. Oh, how fair thou art! ’Twas from me
you got those big eyes, my lady. Kiss me. I love thee. What is it to me that other women have children? I
can laugh at them now! Let them only come and look. Here is mine. Look at her neck, her eyes, her hair,
her hand. Find me anything as beautiful as that! Oh, I’ll warrant you she’ll have plenty of lovers, this
one! I have wept for fifteen years. All my beauty that I lost has gone to her. Kiss me!”
She said a thousand tender and extravagant things to her, the beauty of which lay in their tone,
disarranged the poor child’s garments till she blushed, smoothed her silken tresses with her hand, kissed
her foot, her knee, her forehead, her eyes, went into raptures over everything, the girl letting her do as
she would, only repeating at intervals, very low and with ineffable sweetness the word “Mother!”
“Hark thee, my little girl,” resumed the recluse, interrupting her words constantly with kisses, “hark
thee, I shall love thee and take good care of thee. We will go away from here. We are going to be so
happy! I have inherited somewhat in Reims—in our country. Thou knowest Reims,—thou canst not, thou
wert too little. Couldst thou but know how pretty thou wert at four months old—such tiny feet that people
came all the way from Epernay, five leagues off, to see them. We shall have a field and a house. Thou
shalt sleep in my own bed. Oh, my God! who would believe it? I have my daughter again!”
“Oh, mother!” said the girl, finding strength at last to speak in her emotion, “the gipsy woman spoke
true. There was a good gipsy woman among our people who died last year, and who had always taken
care of me like a fostermother. It was she who hung this little bag round my neck. She used always to say
to me: ‘Child, guard this trinket well; ’tis a treasure; it will make thee find thy mother again. Thou
wearest thy mother about thy neck!” She foretold it—the gipsy woman.”
Again the sachette clasped her daughter in her arms. “Come, let me kiss thee; thou sayest that so
prettily. When we are back in our own home, we will put the little shoes on the feet of an Infant Jesus in a
church. We owe so much to the dear Virgin. Lord, what a sweet voice thou hast! When thou wert