Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

evil, advanced upon the Rat-Hole.
When the recluse saw this, she swept back her long hair from her eyes, struggled to her knees, and
dropped her bleeding and emaciated hands upon them. Great tears welled up one by one to her eyes and
rolled down a long furrow in her cheeks, like a torrent down the bed it has hollowed out. And then she
began to speak, but in a voice so suppliant, so gentle, so submissive and heart-breaking that more than
one hardened old fire-eater in Tristan’s company furtively wiped his eyes.
“Good sirs,” said she, “messieurs the sergeants, one word. There is a thing I must tell you. This is my
daughter, look you—my dear little child who was lost to me! Listen, ’tis quite a story. It may surprise
you, but I know messieurs the sergeants well. They were always good to me in the days when the little
urchins threw stones at me because I was a wanton. Look you; you will leave me my child when you
know all! I was a poor wanton. The gipsies stole her from me—by the same token I have kept her shoe
these fifteen years. Look, here it is. She had a foot like that. At Reims. La Chantefleurie! Rue
Folle-Peine! Perhaps you knew of this? It was I. In your young days; then it was a merry time, and there
were merry doings! You will have pity on me, won’t you, good sirs? The gipsies stole her, and hid her
from me for fifteen years. I thought her dead. Picture to yourself, my good friends, that I thought her
dead. I have passed fifteen years here, in this stone, cave, without any fire in winter. That is hard. The
poor, sweet little shoe! I cried so long to God that he heard me. This night he gave me back my child. She
was not dead. You will not take her from me, I am sure. Even if ’twere me you wanted, I would not mind;
but a child of sixteen! Leave her a little while longer to live in the sunshine! What has she done to you?
nothing at all. Nor I either. If you only knew—I have no one but her. I am old—this is a blessing sent me
from the Holy Virgin! And then, you are all so good! you did not know that it was my daughter; but now
you know. Oh, I love her! Monsieur the Chief Provost, I would rather have a stab in my body than a
scratch on her little finger! You have the air of a kind gentleman! What I tell you now explains the whole
matter, surely? Oh! if you have a mother, sir—you are the captain, leave me my child! See how I entreat
you on my knees, as we pray to Jesus Christ! I ask not alms of any one. Sirs, I come from Reims; I have a
little field from my uncle Mahiet Pradon. I am not a beggar. I want nothing—nothing but my child! Oh, I
want to keep my child! The good God, who is master over all, has not given her back to me for nothing.
The King!—you say the King! It cannot give him much pleasure that they should kill my daughter!
Besides, the King is good! She is my daughter; mine, not the King’s! She does not belong to him! I will
go away! we will both go. After all, just two women passing along the road—a mother and her daughter;
you let them go their way in peace! Let us go; we come from Reims. Oh, you are kind, messieurs the
sergeants. I have nothing to say against you. You will not take my darling; it is not possible! Say it is not
possible! My child! My child!”
We shall not attempt to convey any idea of her gestures, her accent, the tears that trickled over her lips
as she spoke, her clasping, writhing hands, the heart-breaking smiles, the agonized looks, the sighs, the
moans, the miserable and soul-stirring sobs she mingled with these frenzied, incoherent words. When she
ceased, Tristan l’Hermite knit his brows, but it was to hide a tear that glistened in his tiger’s eye. He
conquered this weakness, however, and said brusquely: “It is the King’s will.”
Then leaning down to Henriet Cousin’s ear, he whispered hurriedly, “Do thy business quickly.” It may
be that the redoubtable provost felt his heart failing him—even his.
The hangman and the sergeant accordingly entered the cell. The mother made no attempt at resistance;
she only dragged herself over to her daughter and threw herself distractedly upon her.