“Come！”he said， these first tears passed， “I have no more words. I had， however， thought well as to what you would say.Now I tremble and shiver and break down at the decisive moment， I feel conscious of something supreme enveloping us， and I stammer.Oh！I shall fall upon the pavement if you do not take pity on me， pity on yourself.Do not condemn us both.If you only knew how much I love you！What a heart is mine！Oh！what desertion of all virtue！What desperate abandonment of myself！A doctor， I mock at science； a gentleman， I tarnish my own name； a priest， I make of the missal a pillow of sensuality， I spit in the face of my God！all this for thee， enchantress！to be more worthy of thy hell！And you will not have the apostate！Oh！let me tell you all！more still， something more horrible， oh！Yet more horrible……”
As he uttered these last words， his air became utterly distracted. He was silent for a moment， and resumed， as though speaking to himself， and in a strong voice， —
“Cain， what hast thou done with thy brother？”
There was another silence， and he went on—
“What have I done with him， Lord？I received him， I reared him， I nourished him， I loved him， I idolized him， and I have slain him！Yes， Lord， they have just dashed his head before my eyes on the stone of thine house， and it is because of me， because of this woman， because of her.”
His eye was wild. His voice grew ever weaker； he repeated many times， yet， mechanically， at tolerably long intervals， like a bell prolonging its last vibration：“Because of her.—Because of her.”
Then his tongue no longer articulated any perceptible sound； but his lips still moved. All at once he sank together， like something crumbling， and lay motionless on the earth， with his head on his knees.
A touch from the young girl， as she drew her foot from under him， brought him to himself. He passed his hand slowly over his hollow cheeks， and gazed for several moments at his fingers， which were wet， “What！”he murmured， “I have wept！”
And turning suddenly to the gypsy with unspeakable anguish， —
“Alas！you have looked coldly on at my tears！Child， do you know that those tears are of lava？Is it indeed true？Nothing touches when it comes from the man whom one does not love. If you were to see me die， you would laugh.Oh！I do not wish to see you die！One word！A single word of pardon！Say not that you love me， say only that you will do it； that will suffice； I will save you.If not—oh！the hour is passing.I entreat you by all that is sacred， do not wait until I shall have turned to stone again， like that gibbet which also claims you！Reflect that I hold the destinies of both of us in my hand， that I am mad， —it is terrible， —that I may let all go to destruction， and that there is beneath us a bottomless abyss， unhappy girl， whither my fall will follow yours to all eternity！One word of kindness！Say one word！only one word！”
She opened her mouth to answer him. He flung himself on his knees to receive with adoration the word， possibly a tender one， which was on the point of issuing from her lips.She said to him， “You are an assassin！”
The priest clasped her in his arms with fury， and began to laugh with an abominable laugh.
“Well， yes， an assassin！”he said， “and I will have you. You will not have me for your slave， you shall have me for your master.I will have you！I have a den， whither I will drag you.You will follow me， you will be obliged to follow me， or I will deliver you up！You must die， my beauty， or be mine！belong to the priest！belong to the apostate！belong to the assassin！this very night， do you hear？Come！joy； kiss me， mad girl！The tomb or my bed！”
His eyes sparkled with impurity and rage. His lewd lips reddened the young girl's neck.She struggled in his arms.He covered her with furious kisses.
“Do not bite me， monster！”she cried.“Oh！the foul， odious monk！leave me！I will tear out thy ugly gray hair and fling it in thy face by the handful！”
He reddened， turned pale， then released her and gazed at her with a gloomy air. She thought herself victorious， and continued， —
“I tell you that I belong to my Phoebus， that 'tis Phoebus
whom I love， that 'tis Phoebus who is handsome！you are old， priest！you are ugly！Begone！”
He gave vent to a horrible cry， like the wretch to whom a hot iron is applied.“Die， then！”he said， gnashing his teeth. She saw his terrible look and tried to fly.He caught her once more， he shook her， he flung her on the ground， and walked with rapid strides towards the corner of the Tour-Roland， dragging her after him along the pavement by her beautiful hands.
On arriving there， he turned to her， —
“For the last time， will you be mine？”
She replied with emphasis， —
“No！”
Then he cried in a loud voice， —
“Gudule！Gudule！here is the gypsy！take your vengeance！”
The young gift felt herself seized suddenly by the elbow. She looked.A fleshless arm was stretched from an opening in the wall， and held her like a hand of iron.
“Hold her well， ”said the priest； “'tis the gypsy escaped. Release her not.I will go in search of the sergeants.You shall see her hanged.”
A guttural laugh replied from the interior of the wall to these bloody words—“Hah！hah！hah！”—The gypsy watched the priest retire in the direction of the Pont Notre-Dame. A cavalcade was heard in that direction.
The young girl had recognized the spiteful recluse.Panting with terror， she tried to disengage herself.She writhed， she made many starts of agony and despair， but the other held her with incredible strength.The lean and bony fingers which bruised her， clenched on her flesh and met around it.One would have said that this hand was riveted to her arm. It was more than a chain， more than a fetter， more than a ring of iron， it was a living pair of pincers endowed with intelligence， which emerged from the wall.
She fell back against the wall exhausted， and then the fear of death took possession of her. She thought of the beauty of life， of youth， of the view of heaven， the aspects of nature， of her love for Phoebus， of all that was vanishing and all that was approaching， of the priest who was denouncing her， of the headsman who was to come， of the gallows which was there.Then she felt terror mount to the very roots of her hair and she heard the mocking laugh of the recluse， saying to her in a very low tone：“Hah！hah！hah！you are going to be hanged！”
She turned a dying look towards the window， and she beheld the fierce face of the sacked nun through the bars.
“What have I done to you？”she said， almost lifeless.
The recluse did not reply， but began to mumble with a singsong irritated， mocking intonation：“Daughter of Egypt！daughter of Egypt！daughter of Egypt！”
The unhappy Esmeralda dropped her head beneath her flowing hair， comprehending that it was no human being she had to deal with.
All at once the recluse exclaimed， as though the gypsy's question had taken all this time to reach her brain， —“'What have you done to me？'you say！Ah！What have you done to me， gypsy！Well！listen.—I had a child！you see！I had a child！a child， I tell you！—a pretty little girl！—my Agnès！”she went on wildly， kissing something in the dark.—“Well！do you see， daughter of Egypt？they took my child from me； they stole my child； they ate my child.That is what you have done to me.”
The young girl replied like a lamb， —
“Alas！perchance I was not born then！”
“Oh！yes！”returned the recluse， “you must have been born. You were among them.She would be the same age as you！so！—I have been here fifteen years； fifteen years have I suffered； fifteen years have I prayed； fifteen years have I beat my head against these four walls—I tell you that 'twas the gypsies who stole her from me， do you hear that？and who ate her with their teeth.—Have you a heart？imagine a child playing， a child sucking； a child sleeping.It is so innocent a thing！—Well！that， that is what they took from me， what they killed.The good God knows it well！To-day， it is my turn； I am going to eat the gypsy.—Oh！I would bite you well， if the bars did not prevent me！My head is too large！—Poor little one！while she was asleep！And if they woke her up when they took her， in vain she might cry； I was not there！—Ah！gypsy mothers， you devoured my child！come see your own.”
Then she began to laugh or to gnash her teeth， for the two things resembled each other in that furious face. The day was beginning to dawn.An ashy gleam dimly lighted this scene， and the gallows grew more and more distinct in the square.On the other side， in the direction of the bridge of Notre-Dame， the poor condemned girl fancied that she heard the sound of cavalry approaching.
“Madam， ”she cried， clasping her hands and falling on her knees， dishevelled， distracted， mad with fright； “madam！have pity！They are coming. I have done nothing to you.Would you wish to see me die in this horrible fashion before your very eyes？You are pitiful， I am sure.It is too frightful.Let me make my escape.Release me！Mercy.I do not wish to die like that！”
“Give me back my child！”said the recluse.
“Mercy！Mercy！”
“Give me back my child！”
“Release me， in the name of heaven！”
“Give me back my child！”
Again the young girl fell； exhausted， broken， and having already the glassy eye of a person in the grave.
“Alas！”she faltered， “you seek your child， I seek my parents.”
“Give me back my little Agnès！”pursued Gudule.“You do not know where she is？Then die！—I will tell you.I was a woman of the town， I had a child， they took my child.It was the gypsies.You see plainly that you must die.When your mother， the gypsy， comes to reclaim you， I shall say to her：'Mother， look at that gibbet！—Or， give me back my child.Do you know where she is， my little daughter？Stay！I will show you.Here is her shoe， all that is left me of her.Do you know where its mate is？If you know， tell me， and if it is only at the other end of the world， I will crawl to it on my knees.”
As she spoke thus， with her other arm extended through the window， she showed the gypsy the little embroidered shoe. It was already light enough to distinguish its shape and its colors.
“Let me see that shoe， ”said the gypsy， quivering.“God！God！”
And at the same time， with her hand which was at liberty， she quickly opened the little bag ornamented with green glass， which she wore about her neck.
“Go on， go on！”grumbled Gudule， “search your demon's amulet！”
All at once， she stopped short， trembled in every limb， and cried in a voice which proceeded from the very depths of her being：“My daughter！”
The gypsy had just drawn from the bag a little shoe absolutely similar to the other. To this little shoe was attached a parchment on which was inscribed this charm， —
Quand le parell retrouveras
Ta mere te tendras les bras.
Quicker than a flash of lightning， the recluse had laid the two shoes together， had read the parchment and had put close to the bars of the window her face beaming with celestial joy as she cried， —
“My daughter！my daughter！”
“My mother！”said the gypsy.
Here we are unequal to the task of depicting the scene. The wall and the iron bars were between them.“Oh！the wall！”cried the recluse.“Oh！to see her and not to embrace her！Your hand！your hand！”
The young girl passed her arm through the opening； the recluse threw herself on that hand， pressed her lips to it and there remained， buried in that kiss， giving no other sign of life than a sob which heaved her breast from time to time. In the meanwhile， she wept in torrents， in silence， in the dark， like a rain at night.The poor mother poured out in floods upon that adored hand the dark and deep well of tears， which lay within her， and into which her grief had filtered， drop by drop， for fifteen years.
All at once she rose， flung aside her long gray hair from her brow， and without uttering a word， began to shake the bars of her cage cell， with both hands， more furiously than a lioness. The bars held firm.Then she went to seek in the corner of her cell a huge paving stone， which served her as a pillow， and launched it against them with such violence that one of the bars broke， emitting thousands of sparks.A second blow completely shattered the old iron cross which barricaded the window.Then with her two hands， she finished breaking and removing the rusted stumps of the bars.There are moments when woman's hands possess superhuman strength.
A passage broken， less than a minute was required for her to seize her daughter by the middle of her body， and draw her into her cell.“Come let me draw you out of the abyss， ”she murmured.
When her daughter was inside the cell， she laid her gently on the ground， then raised her up again， and bearing her in her arms as though she were still only her little Agnès， she walked to and fro in her little room， intoxicated， frantic， joyous， crying out， singing， kissing her daughter， talking to her， bursting into laughter， melting into tears， all at once and with vehemence.
“My daughter！my daughter！”she said.“I have my daughter！here she is！The good God has given her back to me！Ha you！come all of you！Is there any one there to see that I have my daughter？Lord Jesus， how beautiful she is！You have made me wait fifteen years， my good God， but it was in order to give her back to me beautiful.—Then the gypsies did not eat her！Who said so？My little daughter！my little daughter！Kiss me. Those good gypsies！I love the gypsies！—It is really you！That was what made my heart leap every time that you passed by.And I took that for hatred！Forgive me， my Agnès， forgive me.You thought me very malicious， did you not？I love you.Have you still the little mark on your neck？Let us see.She still has it.Oh！you are beautiful！It was I who gave you those big eyes， mademoiselle.Kiss me.I love you.It is nothing to me that other mothers have children； I scorn them now.They have only to come and see.Here is mine.See her neck， her eyes， her hair， her hands.Find me anything as beautiful as that！Oh！I promise you she will have lovers， that she will！I have wept for fifteen years.All my beauty has departed and has fallen to her.Kiss me.”
She addressed to her a thousand other extravagant remarks， whose accent constituted their sole beauty， disarranged the poor girl's garments even to the point of making her blush， smoothed her silky hair with her hand， kissed her foot， her knee， her brow， her eyes， was in raptures over everything. The young girl let her have her way， repeating at intervals and very low and with infinite tenderness， “My mother！”
“Do you see， my little girl， ”resumed the recluse， interspersing her words with kisses， “I shall love you dearly？We will go away from here. We are going to be very happy.I have inherited something in Reims， in our country.You know Reims？Ah！no， you do not know it； you were too small！If you only knew how pretty you were at the age of four months！Tiny feet that people came even from Epernay， which is seven leagues away， to see！We shall have a field， a house.I will put you to sleep in my bed.My God！my God！who would believe this？I have my daughter！”
“Oh， my mother！”said the young girl， at length finding strength to speak in her emotion， “the gypsy woman told me so. There was a good gypsy of our band who died last year， and who always cared for me like a nurse.It was she who placed this little bag about my neck.She always said to me：'Little one， guard this jewel well！'Tis a treasure.It will cause thee to find thy mother once again.Thou wearest thy mother about thy neck.'—The gypsy predicted it！”
The sacked nun again pressed her daughter in her arms.
“Come， let me kiss you！You say that prettily. When we are in the country， we will place these little shoes on an infant Jesus in the church.We certainly owe that to the good， holy Virgin.What a pretty voice you have！When you spoke to me just now， it was music！Ah！my Lord God！I have found my child again！But is this story credible？Nothing will kill one—or I should have died of joy.”
And then she began to clap her hands again and to laugh and to cry out：“We are going to be so happy！”
At that moment， the cell resounded with the clang of arms and a galloping of horses which seemed to be coming from the Pont Notre-Dame， amid advancing farther and farther along the quay. The gypsy threw herself with anguish into the arms of the sacked nun.
“Save me！save me！mother！they are coming！”
“Oh， heaven！what are you saying？I had forgotten！They are in pursuit of you！What have you done？”
“I know not， ”replied the unhappy child； “but I am condemned to die.”
“To die！”said Gudule， staggering as though struck by lightning； “to die！”she repeated slowly， gazing at her daughter with staring eyes.
“Yes， mother， ”replied the frightened young girl， “they want to kill me. They are coming to seize me.That gallows is for me！Save me！save me！They are coming！Save me！”
The recluse remained for several moments motionless and petrified， then she moved her head in sign of doubt， and suddenly giving vent to a burst of laughter， but with that terrible laugh which had come back to her， —
“Ho！ho！no！'tis a dream of which you are telling me. Ah， yes！I lost her， that lasted fifteen years， and then I found her again， and that lasted a minute！And they would take her from me again！And now， when she is beautiful， when she is grown up， when she speaks to me， when she loves me； it is now that they would come to devour her， before my very eyes， and I her mother！Oh！no！these things are not possible.The good God does not permit such things as that.”
Here the cavalcade appeared to halt， and a voice was heard to say in the distance， —
“This way， Messire Tristan！The priest says that we shall find her at the Rat-Hole.”The noise of the horses began again.
The recluse sprang to her feet with a shriek of despair.“Fly！fly！my child！All comes back to me. You are right.It is your death！Horror！Maledictions！Fly！”
She thrust her head through the window， and withdrew it again hastily.
“Remain， ”she said， in a low， curt， and lugubrious tone， as she pressed the hand of the gypsy， who was more dead than alive.“Remain！Do not breathe！There are soldiers everywhere. You cannot get out.It is too light.”
Her eyes were dry and burning. She remained silent for a moment； but she paced the cell hurriedly， and halted now and then to pluck out handfuls of her gray hairs， which she afterwards tore with her teeth.
Suddenly she said：“They draw near.I will speak with them.Hide yourself in this corner.They will not see you.I will tell them that you have made your escape. That I released you， i'faith！”
She set her daughter， in one corner of the cell which was not visible from without. She made her crouch down， arranged her carefully so that neither foot nor hand projected from the shadow， untied her black hair which she spread over her white robe to conceal it， placed in front of her her jug and her paving stone， the only articles of furniture which she possessed， imagining that this jug and stone would hide her.And when this was finished she became more tranquil， and knelt down to pray.The day， which was only dawning， still left many shadows in the Rat-Hole.
At that moment， the voice of the priest， that infernal voice， passed very close to the cell， crying， —
“This way， Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers.”
At that name， at that voice， la Esmeralda， crouching in her corner， made a movement.
“Do not stir！”said Gudule.
She had barely finished when a tumult of men， swords， and horses halted around the cell. The mother rose quickly and went to post herself before her window， in order to stop it up.She beheld a large troop of armed men， both horse and foot， drawn up on the Grève.
The commander dismounted， and came toward her.
“Old woman！”said this man， who had an atrocious face， “we are in search of a witch to hang her； we were told that you had her.”
The poor mother assumed as indifferent an air as she could， and replied， —
“I know not what you mean.”
The other resumed， “Tête Dieu！What was it that frightened archdeacon said？Where is he？”
“Monseigneur， ”said a soldier， “he has disappeared.”
“Come， now， old madwoman， ”began the commander again， “do not lie. A sorceress was given in charge to you.What have you done with her？”
The recluse did not wish to deny all， for fear of awakening suspicion， and replied in a sincere and surly tone， —
“If you are speaking of a big young girl who was put into my hands a while ago， I will tell you that she bit me， and that I released her.There！Leave me in peace.”
The commander made a grimace of disappointment.“Don't lie to me， old spectre！”said he.“My name is Tristan l'Hermite， and I am the king's gossip. Tristan the Hermit， do you hear？”He added， as he glanced at the Place de Grève around him， “'Tis a name which has an echo here.”
“You might be Satan the Hermit， ”replied Gudule， who was regaining hope， “but I should have nothing else to say to you， and I should never be afraid of you.”
“Tête-Dieu， ”said Tristan， “here is a crone！Ah！So the witch girl hath fled！And in which direction did she go？”Gudule replied in a careless tone， —
“Through the Rue du Mouton， I believe.”
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to set out on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once more.
“Monseigneur， ”suddenly said an archer， “ask the old elf why the bars of her window are broken in this manner.”
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable mother. Nevertheless， she did not lose all presence of mind.
They have always been thus， ”she stammered.
“Bah！”retorted the archer， “only yesterday they still formed a fine black cross， which inspired devotion.”
Tristan east a sidelong glance at the recluse.
