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BOOK ELEVENTH. CHAPTER I - PART 1.
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THE LITTLE SHOE.
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La Esmeralda was sleeping at the moment when the outcasts assailed the church.
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Soon the ever-increasing uproar around the edifice, and the uneasy bleating of her
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goat which had been awakened, had roused her from her slumbers.
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She had sat up, she had listened, she had looked; then, terrified by the light and
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noise, she had rushed from her cell to see.
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The aspect of the Place, the vision which was moving in it, the disorder of that
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nocturnal assault, that hideous crowd, leaping like a cloud of frogs, half seen in
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the gloom, the croaking of that hoarse
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multitude, those few red torches running and crossing each other in the darkness
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like the meteors which streak the misty surfaces of marshes, this whole scene
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produced upon her the effect of a
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mysterious battle between the phantoms of the witches' sabbath and the stone monsters
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of the church.
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Imbued from her very infancy with the superstitions of the Bohemian tribe, her
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first thought was that she had caught the strange beings peculiar to the night, in
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their deeds of witchcraft.
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Then she ran in terror to cower in her cell, asking of her pallet some less
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terrible nightmare.
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But little by little the first vapors of terror had been dissipated; from the
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constantly increasing noise, and from many other signs of reality, she felt herself
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besieged not by spectres, but by human beings.
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Then her fear, though it did not increase, changed its character.
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She had dreamed of the possibility of a popular mutiny to tear her from her asylum.
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The idea of once more recovering life, hope, Phoebus, who was ever present in her
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future, the extreme helplessness of her condition, flight cut off, no support, her
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abandonment, her isolation,--these thoughts and a thousand others overwhelmed her.
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She fell upon her knees, with her head on her bed, her hands clasped over her head,
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full of anxiety and tremors, and, although a gypsy, an idolater, and a pagan, she
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began to entreat with sobs, mercy from the
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good Christian God, and to pray to our Lady, her hostess.
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For even if one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one is always of
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the religion of the temple which is nearest at hand.
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She remained thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling in truth, more than
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praying, chilled by the ever-closer breath of that furious multitude, understanding
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nothing of this outburst, ignorant of what
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was being plotted, what was being done, what they wanted, but foreseeing a terrible
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issue. In the midst of this anguish, she heard
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some one walking near her.
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She turned round. Two men, one of whom carried a lantern, had
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just entered her cell. She uttered a feeble cry.
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"Fear nothing," said a voice which was not unknown to her, "it is I."
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"Who are you?" she asked. "Pierre Gringoire."
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This name reassured her.
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She raised her eyes once more, and recognized the poet in very fact.
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But there stood beside him a black figure veiled from head to foot, which struck her
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by its silence.
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"Oh!" continued Gringoire in a tone of reproach, "Djali recognized me before you!"
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The little goat had not, in fact, waited for Gringoire to announce his name.
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No sooner had he entered than it rubbed itself gently against his knees, covering
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the poet with caresses and with white hairs, for it was shedding its hair.
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Gringoire returned the caresses.
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"Who is this with you?" said the gypsy, in a low voice.
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"Be at ease," replied Gringoire. "'Tis one of my friends."
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Then the philosopher setting his lantern on the ground, crouched upon the stones, and
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exclaimed enthusiastically, as he pressed Djali in his arms,--
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"Oh! 'tis a graceful beast, more considerable no doubt, for it's neatness
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than for its size, but ingenious, subtle, and lettered as a grammarian!
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Let us see, my Djali, hast thou forgotten any of thy pretty tricks?
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How does Master Jacques Charmolue?..." The man in black did not allow him to
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finish.
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He approached Gringoire and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
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Gringoire rose. "'Tis true," said he: "I forgot that we are
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in haste.
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But that is no reason master, for getting furious with people in this manner.
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My dear and lovely child, your life is in danger, and Djali's also.
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They want to hang you again.
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We are your friends, and we have come to save you.
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Follow us." "Is it true?" she exclaimed in dismay.
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"Yes, perfectly true.
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Come quickly!" "I am willing," she stammered.
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"But why does not your friend speak?"
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"Ah!" said Gringoire, "'tis because his father and mother were fantastic people who
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made him of a taciturn temperament." She was obliged to content herself with
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this explanation.
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Gringoire took her by the hand; his companion picked up the lantern and walked
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on in front. Fear stunned the young girl.
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She allowed herself to be led away.
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The goat followed them, frisking, so joyous at seeing Gringoire again that it made him
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stumble every moment by thrusting its horns between his legs.
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"Such is life," said the philosopher, every time that he came near falling down; "'tis
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often our best friends who cause us to be overthrown."
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They rapidly descended the staircase of the towers, crossed the church, full of shadows
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and solitude, and all reverberating with uproar, which formed a frightful contrast,
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and emerged into the courtyard of the cloister by the red door.
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The cloister was deserted; the canons had fled to the bishop's palace in order to
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pray together; the courtyard was empty, a few frightened lackeys were crouching in
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dark corners.
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They directed their steps towards the door which opened from this court upon the
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Terrain. The man in black opened it with a key which
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he had about him.
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Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of land enclosed by walls on the
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side of the City and belonging to the chapter of Notre-Dame, which terminated the
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island on the east, behind the church.
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They found this enclosure perfectly deserted.
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There was here less tumult in the air. The roar of the outcasts' assault reached
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them more confusedly and less clamorously.
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The fresh breeze which follows the current of a stream, rustled the leaves of the only
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tree planted on the point of the Terrain, with a noise that was already perceptible.
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But they were still very close to danger.
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The nearest edifices to them were the bishop's palace and the church.
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It was plainly evident that there was great internal commotion in the bishop's palace.
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Its shadowy mass was all furrowed with lights which flitted from window to window;
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as, when one has just burned paper, there remains a sombre edifice of ashes in which
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bright sparks run a thousand eccentric courses.
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Beside them, the enormous towers of Notre- Dame, thus viewed from behind, with the
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long nave above which they rise cut out in black against the red and vast light which
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filled the Parvis, resembled two gigantic andirons of some cyclopean fire-grate.
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What was to be seen of Paris on all sides wavered before the eye in a gloom mingled
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with light.
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Rembrandt has such backgrounds to his pictures.
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The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the Terrain.
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There, at the very brink of the water, stood the wormeaten remains of a fence of
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posts latticed with laths, whereon a low vine spread out a few thin branches like
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the fingers of an outspread hand.
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Behind, in the shadow cast by this trellis, a little boat lay concealed.
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The man made a sign to Gringoire and his companion to enter.
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The goat followed them.
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The man was the last to step in.
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Then he cut the boat's moorings, pushed it from the shore with a long boat-hook, and,
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seizing two oars, seated himself in the bow, rowing with all his might towards
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midstream.
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The Seine is very rapid at this point, and he had a good deal of trouble in leaving
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the point of the island. Gringoire's first care on entering the boat
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was to place the goat on his knees.
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He took a position in the stern; and the young girl, whom the stranger inspired with
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an indefinable uneasiness, seated herself close to the poet.
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When our philosopher felt the boat sway, he clapped his hands and kissed Djali between
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the horns. "Oh!" said he, "now we are safe, all four
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of us."
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He added with the air of a profound thinker, "One is indebted sometimes to
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fortune, sometimes to ruse, for the happy issue of great enterprises."
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The boat made its way slowly towards the right shore.
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The young girl watched the unknown man with secret terror.
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He had carefully turned off the light of his dark lantern.
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A glimpse could be caught of him in the obscurity, in the bow of the boat, like a
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spectre.
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His cowl, which was still lowered, formed a sort of mask; and every time that he spread
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his arms, upon which hung large black sleeves, as he rowed, one would have said
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they were two huge bat's wings.
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Moreover, he had not yet uttered a word or breathed a syllable.
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No other noise was heard in the boat than the splashing of the oars, mingled with the
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rippling of the water along her sides.
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"On my soul!" exclaimed Gringoire suddenly, "we are as cheerful and joyous as young
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owls! We preserve the silence of Pythagoreans or
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fishes!
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Pasque-Dieu! my friends, I should greatly like to have some one speak to me.
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The human voice is music to the human ear. 'Tis not I who say that, but Didymus of
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Alexandria, and they are illustrious words.
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Assuredly, Didymus of Alexandria is no mediocre philosopher.--One word, my lovely
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child! say but one word to me, I entreat you.
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By the way, you had a droll and peculiar little pout; do you still make it?
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Do you know, my dear, that parliament hath full jurisdiction over all places of
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asylum, and that you were running a great risk in your little chamber at Notre-Dame?
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Alas! the little bird trochylus maketh its nest in the jaws of the crocodile.--Master,
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here is the moon re-appearing. If only they do not perceive us.
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We are doing a laudable thing in saving mademoiselle, and yet we should be hung by
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order of the king if we were caught. Alas! human actions are taken by two
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handles.
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That is branded with disgrace in one which is crowned in another.
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He admires Cicero who blames Catiline. Is it not so, master?
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What say you to this philosophy?
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I possess philosophy by instinct, by nature, ut apes geometriam.--Come! no one
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answers me. What unpleasant moods you two are in!
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I must do all the talking alone.
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That is what we call a monologue in tragedy.--Pasque-Dieu!
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I must inform you that I have just seen the king, Louis XI., and that I have caught
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this oath from him,--Pasque-Dieu!
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They are still making a hearty howl in the city.--'Tis a villanous, malicious old
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king. He is all swathed in furs.
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He still owes me the money for my epithalamium, and he came within a nick of
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hanging me this evening, which would have been very inconvenient to me.--He is
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niggardly towards men of merit.
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He ought to read the four books of Salvien of Cologne, Adversits Avaritiam.
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In truth!
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'Tis a paltry king in his ways with men of letters, and one who commits very barbarous
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cruelties. He is a sponge, to soak money raised from
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the people.
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His saving is like the spleen which swelleth with the leanness of all the other
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members.
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Hence complaints against the hardness of the times become murmurs against the
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prince.
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Under this gentle and pious sire, the gallows crack with the hung, the blocks rot
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with blood, the prisons burst like over full bellies.
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This king hath one hand which grasps, and one which hangs.
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He is the procurator of Dame Tax and Monsieur Gibbet.
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The great are despoiled of their dignities, and the little incessantly overwhelmed with
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fresh oppressions. He is an exorbitant prince.
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I love not this monarch.
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And you, master?" The man in black let the garrulous poet
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chatter on.
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He continued to struggle against the violent and narrow current, which separates
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the prow of the City and the stem of the island of Notre-Dame, which we call to-day
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the Isle St. Louis.
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"By the way, master!" continued Gringoire suddenly.
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"At the moment when we arrived on the Parvis, through the enraged outcasts, did
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your reverence observe that poor little devil whose skull your deaf man was just
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cracking on the railing of the gallery of the kings?
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I am near sighted and I could not recognize him.
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Do you know who he could be?"
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The stranger answered not a word. But he suddenly ceased rowing, his arms
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fell as though broken, his head sank on his breast, and la Esmeralda heard him sigh
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convulsively.
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She shuddered. She had heard such sighs before.
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The boat, abandoned to itself, floated for several minutes with the stream.
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But the man in black finally recovered himself, seized the oars once more and
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began to row against the current.
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He doubled the point of the Isle of Notre Dame, and made for the landing-place of the
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Port an Foin.
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"Ah!" said Gringoire, "yonder is the Barbeau mansion.--Stay, master, look: that
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group of black roofs which make such singular angles yonder, above that heap of
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black, fibrous grimy, dirty clouds, where
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the moon is completely crushed and spread out like the yolk of an egg whose shell is
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broken.--'Tis a fine mansion. There is a chapel crowned with a small
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vault full of very well carved enrichments.
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Above, you can see the bell tower, very delicately pierced.
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There is also a pleasant garden, which consists of a pond, an aviary, an echo, a
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mall, a labyrinth, a house for wild beasts, and a quantity of leafy alleys very
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agreeable to Venus.
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There is also a rascal of a tree which is called 'the lewd,' because it favored the
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pleasures of a famous princess and a constable of France, who was a gallant and
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a wit.--Alas! we poor philosophers are to a
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constable as a plot of cabbages or a radish bed to the garden of the Louvre.
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What matters it, after all? human life, for the great as well as for us, is a mixture
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of good and evil.
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Pain is always by the side of joy, the spondee by the dactyl.--Master, I must
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relate to you the history of the Barbeau mansion.
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It ends in tragic fashion.
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It was in 1319, in the reign of Philippe V., the longest reign of the kings of
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France.