Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Pierre Grainier, “at last here’s one who can speak a Christian language. I
must indeed have a benevolent air for them to ask alms of me, considering the present exhausted
condition of my purse. My friend,” and he turned to the blind man, “last week I sold my last shirt, or
rather, as you are acquainted only with the language of Cicero, ‘Vendid hebdomade super transita meum
ultimuman chemisam.’”
So saying, he turned his back on the blind man and pursued his way. But the blind man proceeded to
quicken his pace at the same time, and behold the cripple and the stump also came hurrying forward with
great clatter and rattle of crutches and supports, and all three tumbling over one another at poor
Gringoire’s heels, favoured him with their several songs. “Caritatem!” whined the blind man. “La
buona mancia!” piped the stump, and the cripple took up the strain of “Un pedaso de pan!”
Gringoire stopped his ears. “Oh, tower of Babel!” he cried, and set off running. The blind man ran, the
cripple ran, the stump ran.
And as he penetrated farther down the street, the maimed, the halt, and the blind began to swarm round
him, while one-armed or one-eyed men, and lepers covered with sores, issued from the houses, some
from little streets adjacent, some from the bowels of the earth, howling, bellowing, yelping, hobbling,
and clattering along, all pressing forward towards the glow and wallowing in the mud like slugs after the
rain.
Gringoire, still followed by his three persecutors, and not at all sure of what would come of all this,
walked on bewildered in the midst of this swarm, upsetting the halt, striding over the stumps, his feet
entangled in that ant-hill of cripples, like the English captain who was beset by a legion of crabs.
It occurred to him to attempt to retrace his steps, but it was too late. The herd had closed up behind him
and his three beggars held him fast. He went on, therefore, compelled at once by that irresistible flood, by
fear, and by a sensation of giddiness which made the whole thing seem like some horrible nightmare.
At last he reached the end of the street. It opened into an immense square in which a multitude of
scattered lights were flickering through the misty gloom. Gringoire precipitated himself into it, hoping by
the speed of his legs to escape the three maimed spectres who had fastened themselves on to him.
“Onde vas hombre?” 30 cried the cripple, tossing aside his complicated supports and running after him
with as good a pair of legs as ever measured a geometrical pace upon the pavements of Paris; while the
stump, standing erect upon his feet, bonneted Gringoire with the heavy iron-rimmed platter which served
him as a support, and the blind man stared him in the face with great flaming eyes.
“Where am I?” asked the terrified poet.
“In the Court of Miracles,” replied a fourth spectre who had joined them.
“Truly,” said Gringoire, “I see that here the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, but where is the
Saviour?”
Their only answer was a sinister laugh.
The poor poet looked about him. He was, in fact, in that Cour des Miracles where never honest man
penetrated at such an hour—a magic circle wherein any officer of the Châtelet or sergeant of the
Provostry intrepid enough to risk entering vanished in morsels—a city of thieves, a hideous sore on the