Notre-Dame de Paris, Victor Hugo [i like reading TXT] 📗

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! Today, 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 pareil retrouveras
Ta mère te tendras les bras.68

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