Chapter 43 Notre Dame de Paris (3) Volume VII Fate (2)

2 A Priest and a Philosopher Together The priest whom the ladies saw just now standing on the top of the north belfry, leaning over the square, and watching the gypsy girl dancing attentively, was none other than the archdeacon Claude Frollo. The spectators must have not forgotten the mysterious cell that the archdeacon had set up for himself on the top of the bell tower. (By the way, I don’t know if it’s the same one that can be seen from the platform of the two bell towers today through a small square window about one person’s height facing east. This is a The shanty, now bare, empty, and dilapidated, with sloppily painted walls and here and there adorned with a few shabby yellow engravings reflecting the facade of the cathedral. I suppose the cave is now co-inhabited by bats. and spiders, so the flies are doubly annihilated.)

Every day, an hour before sunset, the archdeacon climbed the stairs of the bell tower and retreated to this little room, where he sometimes remained all night long.On this day, when he came to the low door of this shabby room, he took out the complicated little key he carried with him from the pouch hanging on his waist. Just as he was inserting the key into the lock, he suddenly heard There was the sound of tambourines and castanets.The sound came from the square in front of the church.As we have already said, this cell has only one window opening towards the back of the cathedral.Claude Frollo hastily pulled out the key, and in a short while came to the top of the bell tower, just as the ladies saw, looking gloomy and pensive.There he remained, majestic, motionless, gazing and meditating.The whole of Paris is at his feet, together with the thousands of spiers of the countless buildings in the city, the weak hills surrounded in the distance, the Seine River winding under the bridges, and the waves of people in the streets, like clouds. The smoke, the undulating roof like a chain, and the overlapping chains squeezing Notre Dame.However, in the whole city, the archdeacon is only looking at one point on the ground: the square in front of Notre-Dame; in the whole crowd, he is looking at only one figure: the gypsy girl.

It is difficult to tell what kind of gaze it is, and where the flames spurted from it come from.This is a dull look, but it is full of chaos and commotion.His whole body was motionless, only shaking involuntarily from time to time, like a tree shaking in the wind; his elbows propped on the marble railing were stiffer than marble; his straight smile made his entire face tense. tight. Seeing him like this, it seemed that Claude Frollo's whole body was dead, only his eyes were alive. Gypsy girls danced with tambourines twirling on their fingertips and threw them into the air while dancing the sarabande of Provence.Agile, light, and cheerful, she didn't feel the pressure of that terrible gaze that was projected vertically on her head.

Swarm ants swarmed around her.From time to time, a strange man in a red and yellow coat came out to help her run around, and then returned to sit on a chair a few steps away from the dancing girl, hugging the goat's head and resting it on his lap. .The man looked like the partner of a gypsy girl.Claude Frollo looked down from the height on which he stood, and could not see his face clearly. From the moment he saw the stranger, the archdeacon's distracted attention, divided between the dancing girl and the man, grew more and more gloomy.He straightened up suddenly, trembling all over his body, and muttered: "Who is this man? I always see her alone!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he ducked under the winding vault of the spiral staircase and rushed downstairs.As he passed the half-open door of the bell tower, he suddenly noticed something and couldn't help being startled. He saw Quasimodo leaning over a gap in the slate eaves that looked like a huge shutter, and was also looking towards the square.He was so engrossed in watching that he didn't even notice his adoptive father walked by.There was a strange expression in that rough eye.It was a kind of bewitched tender gaze.Claude couldn't help muttering: "This is strange! Could it be that he is also looking at that Egyptian girl?" He continued to walk down, and after a while, the preoccupied vicar walked into the square from a door at the bottom of the clock tower .

"What's the matter with the gypsy girl?" he asked, among the spectators attracted by the sound of the tambourines. "I don't know." A person next to him replied. "She disappeared. She must have been dancing the fandango in the house across the way. They sent her there." On the same carpet where the gypsy girl danced so gracefully and gracefully that she concealed the pattern of flowers and leaves on the carpet, the archdeacon saw only the man in the red and yellow jacket.This man was going round in circles to make a few bucks, with his elbows resting on his hips, his head thrown back, his face flushed, his neck stretched out, and a chair chained to it between his teeth. A cat was borrowed from a woman nearby, and the cat meowed in fright.

Sweating profusely, the charlatan, atop a pyramid of chairs and cats, walked past the archdeacon.The Archdeacon immediately called out: "Holy Mother! Pierre Gringoire, what are you doing?" The archdeacon's voice was so severe that the poor wretch was so startled that he and his pyramid lost their balance, and chairs and cats fell on the heads of the audience, provoking a prolonged jeering. Pierre Gringoire (it was he) would have been in trouble if Claude Frollo had not signaled him to follow, and he had taken advantage of the confusion to hide in the church.The mistress of the cat, and all the spectators with scratched and bruised faces, are likely to find him together.

The cathedral was already dark and empty.The cloisters around the nave were dark, and the lights of the chapels began to twinkle like stars, as the vaults grew darker.Only the large rose window on the front of the cathedral still reflects the afterglow of the setting sun, colorful, like a pile of brilliant gems, shining in the dark, and reflecting the dazzling brilliance to the other end of the main hall. ① is a Spanish folk dance in triple time with castanets. They walked a few steps, and Don Claude leaned against a post and gazed at Gringoire intently.Gringoire was not afraid of this look, for he felt that it would be a shame for him to be caught by a serious and learned man in such a buffoon's costume.There was nothing mocking or ironic in the priest's glance, but seriousness, calmness, and insight.The archdeacon broke the silence first, saying:

"Come here, Mr. Pierre has many things to tell me. First of all, you have not been seen for nearly two months, and now I found you on the street. Look at your clothes, really! Half yellow and half red , are exactly the same as the apples of Caldbeck ①, tell me, what is going on here?" "My lord," replied Gringoire pitifully. "This outfit is really weird. Look at me, I look more embarrassed than a cat wearing a gourd. I also think it's terrible. It's tantamount to asking for trouble, deliberately calling the patrol We took this Pythagorean philosopher in a strange costume, and gave him a good beat on the shoulder blades. But what do you want me to do, my lord? It's all my old coat, which is unkind in winter. Justly abandoned me, on the pretext that it was a piece of rags, and that it should be put in a rag-basket to enjoy life. What should I do? Civilization has not yet reached that point, as the ancient Diogenes said. As I advocated, you can walk around naked, and besides, the cold wind is cold, trying to make mankind take this new step, and succeed, you can't succeed in January! I happened to see this coat, I took it, Only then did he throw away the worn-out black coat.

① Kodbeck is in the Rouen region of France. ② Diogenes (413-323 BC), a philosopher of the Cynic school of ancient Greece To a mystical philosopher like myself, shabby is no mystery.In this way, I put on the jester's clothes like St. Janet.What can I do?This is just a temporary setback.Apollo had indeed herded pigs at Admetus' house. " "You've done a good job!" said the archdeacon. "My lord, sitting and talking, writing poetry, blowing to the stove, or receiving flames from the sky, I agree it is much more pleasant than carrying a cat's big shield. So you just reprimanded me, I am indeed better than staying at a barbecue A donkey before an iron fork is even stupider. But what can you do, my lord? You have to live every day! The most beautiful Alexandria ③ lines are not as delicious to chew as Brie cheese ④. I gave Flanders Princess Margaret wrote that marvelous wedding hymn you know, but the city won't pay me, on the pretext that the poem is not well written, as if four crowns would send Sophocles away It's like a tragedy of Adams ⑤. I was almost starving to death, but fortunately I felt my gums were quite solid, so I said to my gums: "Go play strength tricks, play balance tricks, and feed yourself Do it yourself." A group of beggars—now all of them have become my good friends—taught me more than twenty kinds of strength exercises, so now I can rely on the bread earned by sweating profusely during the day and feed me at night. My teeth are broken. I admit that it is pathetic to use my intelligence in this way. Human life is not designed to spend time beating tambourines and chewing chairs. After all, my lord, it is not enough to live a bright life. You have to earn a living."

Don Claude listened quietly.Suddenly, his sunken eyes showed a keen and sharp gaze, and it can be said that Gringoire suddenly felt that this gaze penetrated into the depths of his soul. ① Brie is the eastern region of the Paris Basin, known for its richness in Brie cheese. ② Alexandrian verse is rhyme with twelve syllables per line. ③ Admetus is a character in ancient Greek mythology, the king of Fels.Apollo was punished by Zeus to serve a year as a mortal for killing the one-eyed dragon, so he chose Admetus as his master to tend the pigs for him. ④ Saint Janet was a martyr in ancient Rome. ⑤ Sophocles (approximately 496 BC-406 BC), the tragedy master of ancient Greece. "Very well, Mr. Pierre, why are you hanging out with that dancing Egyptian girl now?" "What!" said Gringoire. "She is my wife and I am her husband." Suddenly the priest's gloomy eyes burned like flames. "How can you do such a thing, poor thing?" he cried, grabbing Gringoire's arm in a rage. "You have been cast aside by God to such an extent that you will touch this girl?" "By my name in heaven, my lord," replied Gringoire, trembling all over. "I swear to you, I never touched this girl, if that's what you're worried about." "Then what do you say about husband and wife?" said the priest. Gringoire hastened to tell him in a few words what the judge knew, the adventures of the miraculous court, and the marriage by throwing a jar.And said that the marriage seemed to be in vain, and that every night the gypsy girl avoided him as she had done on her wedding night.At the end he said: "It's hard to say, it's all because of my bad luck that I begged for a chaste saint." "What do you say?" asked the archdeacon, gradually losing his anger at this account. "It's quite difficult to say clearly," replied the poet. "It's a superstition. ① Before that, it has been called "you", but here it is changed to "you", expressing anger and contempt. According to an old robber who was called the Duke of Egypt, my wife was a found child, or a lost child, which is the same thing.Around her neck is an amulet that is said to reunite her with her parents, but if the girl loses her virginity, the amulet loses its power.So both of us have kept ourselves clean. " "So," Claude said, his face becoming more and more cheerful. "Pierre, do you think that this woman has never approached any man?" "Don Claude, how do you expect a man to deal with superstition? She has it on her mind. I think there are very few women who can keep themselves as good as nuns among the bums that are available. However, she has three magic weapons for self-defense: one is the Duke of Egypt, who puts her under direct protection; The chief ordered repeatedly to prohibit the carrying of murder weapons. This little pepper always carries a dagger in some hidden corner of her body. If anyone dares to touch her waist, the dagger will be pulled out immediately. This is really a savage wasp, come on!" The archdeacon did not stop there, and questioned Gringoire again and again. According to Gringoire's judgment, Esmeralda, a good girl, is docile and charming; pretty, except for her characteristic pout; Enthusiastic about everything; ignorant of the difference between men and women, not even in dreams; born like this; She especially likes to dance, liveliness, and outdoor activities; she is a bee-like woman with invisible wings on her feet, living in constant whirling.It was a disposition which she had cultivated in the wandering life she had lived in the past.Gringoire finally learned that she traveled all over Spain and Catalunia when she was young, and went to Sicily; he even believed that she had traveled to the territory of Akai with a group of gypsy people. The kingdom of Algiers, Akayi borders small Albania and Greece on one side, and the Sicilian Sea on the other side, which is the only way to Constantinople.According to Gringoire, the King of Algiers was the head of the White Moors, and these wanderers were his subjects.One thing that is certain is that Esmeralda came to France from Hungary when she was still very young.From all these places the maiden brought bits and pieces of queer dialects, songs, and strange ideas, so that she spoke in a mixed, mixed way, as if her dress were half Parisian and half African. .However, the people in the neighborhoods she frequented liked her very much, liked her jovial, courteous, lively, and liked her singing and dancing.She thought there were only two people in the whole town who hated her, and her heart shuddered at the mention of them: the sackcloth from the Tower Laurent, an ugly hermit who knew nothing against Egyptian women, and whenever the poor dancing girl passed by. When the window was opened, she cursed; the other person was a priest, and every time she met her, the eyes and words cast on her made her feel terrified.The archdeacon was disturbed by this last circumstance, but Gringoire did not pay much attention to it, because in the space of two months the idle poet had explained all the strange circumstances of the encounter with the Egyptian girl that night, and the presence of the archdeacon here. All the scenes that appeared in it were completely forgotten.But the little dancing girl had nothing to be afraid of, and she never told fortunes, which spared the usual witchcraft lawsuits common to gypsy women.Besides, Gringoire was at least a brother, if not a husband.In short, the philosopher is at peace with this platonic marriage, there is always a place to settle down, there is always bread to live on.Every morning, he often went to the street with the Egyptian girl to help her collect the small money given by the audience; every night, he went back to their common residence with her, even though she locked herself in a small separate room, he Enron fell asleep. On the whole, he thought, it was a pleasant life, and conducive to contemplation.Besides, he could not in good conscience know whether the philosopher was madly infatuated with the gipsy girl.He loved the goat almost as much as he loved the gypsy girl.This goat is really cute, docile, smart, and talented. It is a well-trained goat.Such awe-inspiring, dexterous beasts, which often resulted in the burning of their handlers, were commonplace in the Middle Ages.The golden hoofed goat's magic is nothing more than a harmless trick.Gringoire explained these tricks carefully to the archdeacon, who seemed to listen with great interest. In many cases, simply holding the tambourine in front of the goat in one way or another can make it perform the desired trick.It was all the work of the gypsy girl, who had a rare gift for such ingenuity, and taught the goat in two months to spell the word Phoebes from the priming letters. "Phoebus!" said the priest. "Why Phoebus?" "I don't know," replied Gringoire. "Perhaps a word she thinks has some mystical power. She whispers it over and over when she thinks she's alone." "Are you sure it's just a word, not a person's name?" Claude asked again, staring at him with his peculiar keen eyes. "Whose name?" said the poet. "How should I know?" replied the priest. "That's what I thought, my lord. These wanderers are somewhat Zoroastrian, sun-worshippers. That's where Phoebus came from." "I am not so clear as you think, Monsieur Pierre." "It's none of my business anyway. Let her say 'Phoebus' if she wants to. One thing's for certain, Belle likes me almost as much as she likes her." "Who is this beauty?" "She goat." The archdeacon rested his chin on his hand, looking dreamy.After a while, he turned suddenly and turned towards Gringoire. "Dare you swear to me, you really haven't touched it?" "Who did you touch? The she-goat?" asked Gringoire. "No, touch that woman." "Touch my woman! I swear to you, I haven't." "Aren't you often alone with her?" "Every night, for a full hour." Don Claude frowned when he heard this. "Cough! Cough! It never occurs to a man and a woman to say the Lord's Prayer when they are alone." "By my soul, if I say the Lord's Prayer, the Ave Maria, and the Faith in God Our Almighty Father, she's no more interested in me than a hen is in a church." "Swear on your mother's belly," repeated the Archdeacon roughly. "I swear you never touched this woman with your fingertips." "I swear, I can still vouch for my father's head, because the two have more than one relationship! However, my lord, please allow me to ask a question." ①② The original text is Latin. "Speak, sir." "What does this matter to you?" The archdeacon's pale face suddenly flushed like a girl's cheek.He didn't respond for a while, and then said with obvious embarrassment: "Listen, Monsieur Pierre Gringoire, as far as I know, you have not been condemned to hell. I care for you and wish you well. However, if you touch that Egyptian devil girl a little, you To become a slave to Satan. You know, it is always the body that destroys the soul. If you get close to that woman, you will be in trouble! It is over!" "I tried once," said Gringoire, scratching his ear. "On the wedding day God, it turned out to be stabbed. " "Mr. Pierre, are you so brazen?" Then the priest's face darkened again. "One more time," the poet continued with a smile. "Before I went to bed, I peeped through the keyhole of her door, and I happened to see the peerless beauty in the shirt, with bare feet, and I must have kicked the bed frame loudly." "Go away, to hell!" shouted the priest with fierce eyes, and grabbed Gringoire by the shoulders, pushed the flamboyant poet violently, and then plunged into the darkest vault of the church.