Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

mention flutes and brasses. Alas, our readers will remember that this was Gringoire’s orchestra.
It would be difficult to convey an idea of the degree of beatitude and proud satisfaction which had
gradually spread over the sad and hideous countenance of Quasimodo during his progress from the Palais
to the Place de Grève. It was the first gleam of self-approbation he had ever experienced. Hitherto,
humiliation, disdain, disgust alone had been his portion. Deaf as he was, he relished like any true Pope
the acclamations of the multitude, whom he hated because he felt they hated him. What matter that his
people were a rabble of Fools, of halt and maimed, of thieves, of beggars? They were a people and he
was a sovereign. And he accepted seriously all this ironical applause, all this mock reverence, with
which, however, we are bound to say, there was mingled a certain amount of perfectly genuine fear. For
the hunchback was very strong, and though bow-legged was active, and though deaf, was
resentful—three qualities which have a way of tempering ridicule.
For the rest, it is highly improbable that the new Pope of Fools was conscious either of the sentiments
he experienced or of those which he inspired. The mind lodged in that misshapen body must inevitably
be itself defective and dim, so that whatever he felt at that moment, he was aware of it but in a vague,
uncertain, confused way. But joy pierced the gloom and pride predominated. Around that sombre and
unhappy countenance there was a halo of light.
It was therefore not without surprise and terror that suddenly, just as Quasimodo in this semi-ecstatic
state was passing the Maison-aux-Piliers in his triumphant progress, they saw a man dart from the crowd,
and with a gesture of hate, snatch from his hand the choosier of gilt wood, the emblem of his mock
papacy.
This bold person was the same man who, a moment before, had scared the poor gipsy girl with his
words of menace and hatred. He wore the habit of an ecclesiastic, and the moment he disengaged himself
from the crowd, Grainier, who had not observed him before, recognised him. “Tiens!” said he with a cry
of astonishment, “it is my master in Hermetics, Dom Claude Frollo the Archdeacon. What the devil can
he want with that one-eyed brute? He will assuredly be devoured!”
Indeed, a cry of terror rose from the crowd, for the formidable hunchback had leapt from his seat, and
the women turned their heads that they might not see the Archdeacon torn limb from limb.
He made one bound towards the priest, looked in his face, and fell on his knees before him.
The priest then snatched off his tiara, broke his choosier in two, and rent his cope of tinsel, Quasimodo
remaining on his knees with bent head and clasped hands.
On this there began a strange dialogue between the two of signs and gestures, for neither of them
uttered a word: the priest standing angry, menacing, masterful; Quasimodo prostrate before him,
humbled and suppliant; and yet Quasimodo could certainly have crushed the priest with his finger and
thumb.
At last, with a rough shake of the dwarf’s powerful shoulder, the Archdeacon made him a sign to rise
and follow him.
Quasimodo rose to his feet.
At this the Fraternity of Fools, the first stupor of surprise passed, prepared to defend their Pope thus
rudely dethroned, while the Egyptians, the Arguers, and the Basoche in a body closed yelping round the