Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

For some moments the girl had been aware of his presence, turning round two or three times uneasily;
once, even, she had stopped short, and taking advantage of a ray of light from a half-open bakehouse
door, had scanned him steadily from head to foot; then, with the little pouting grimace which Grainier
had already noticed, she had proceeded on her way.
That little moue gave Grainier food for reflection. There certainly was somewhat of disdain and
mockery in that captivating grimace. In consequence he hung his head and began to count the
paving-stones, and to follow the girl at a more respectful distance. Suddenly, at a street corner which for
the moment had caused him to lose sight of her, he heard her utter a piercing shriek. He hastened
forward. The street was very dark, but a twist of cotton steeped in oil that burned behind an iron grating
at the feet of an image of the Virgin, enabled Grainier to descry the gipsy struggling in the arms of two
men who were endeavouring to stifle her cries. The poor, frightened little goat lowered its horns and
bleated piteously.
“Help! help! gentlemen of the watch!” cried Grainier, advancing bravely. One of the men holding the
girl turned towards him—it was the formidable countenance of Quasimodo.
Grainier did not take to his heels, but neither did he advance one step.
Quasimodo came at him, dealt him a blow that hurled him four paces off on the pavement, and
disappeared rapidly into the darkness, carrying off the girl hanging limply over one of his arms like a
silken scarf. His companion followed him, and the poor little goat ran after them bleating piteously.
“Murder! murder!” screamed the hapless gipsy.
“Hold, villains, and drop that wench!” thundered a voice suddenly, and a horseman sprang out from a
neighbouring cross-road.
It was a captain of the Royal Archers, armed cap-à-pie, and sabre in hand.
He snatched the gipsy from the grasp of the stupefied Quasimodo and laid her across his saddle; and as
the redoubtable hunchback, recovered from his surprise, was about to throw himself upon him and
recover his prey, fifteen or sixteen archers who had followed close upon their captain appeared,
broadsword in hand. It was a detachment going the night rounds by order of M. d’Estouteville,
commandant of the Provostry of Paris.
Quasimodo was instantly surrounded, seized, and bound. He roared, he foamed, he bit, and had it been
daylight, no doubt his face alone, rendered still more hideous by rage, would have put the whole
detachment to flight. But darkness deprived him of his most formidable weapon—his ugliness.
His companion had vanished during the struggle.
The gipsy girl sat up lightly on the officer’s saddle, put her two hands on the young man’s shoulders,
and regarded him fixedly for several seconds, obviously charmed by his good looks and grateful for the
service he had just rendered her.
She was the first to break the silence. Infusing a still sweeter tone into her sweet voice, she said:
“Monsieur the Gendarme, how are you called?”
“Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers, at your service, ma belle.”