Chapter1 Good Souls
Sixteen years previous to the epoch when this story takes place， one fine morning， on Quasimodo Sunday， a living creature had been deposited， after mass， in the church of Notre-Dame， on the wooden bed securely fixed in the vestibule on the left， opposite that great image of Saint Christopher， which the figure of Messire Antoine des Essarts， chevalier， carved in stone， had been gazing at on his knees since 1413， when they took it into their heads to overthrow the saint and the faithful follower. Upon this bed of wood it was customary to expose foundlings for public charity.Whoever cared to take them did so.In front of the wooden bed was a copper basin for alms.
The sort of living being which lay upon that plank on the morning of Quasimodo， in the year of the Lord， 1467， appeared to excite to a high degree， the curiosity of the numerous group which had congregated about the wooden bed. The group was formed for the most part of the fair sex.Hardly any one was there except old women.
In the first row， and among those who were most bent over the bed， four were noticeable， who， from their gray cagoule， a sort of cassock， were recognizable as attached to some devout sisterhood. I do not see why history has not transmitted to posterity the names of these four discreet and venerable damsels.They were Agnès la Herme， Jehanne de la Tarme， Henriette la Gaultière， Gauchère la Violette， all four widows， all four dames of the Chapel Etienne Haudry， who had quitted their house with the permission of their mistress， and in conformity with the statutes of Pierre d'Ailly， in order to come and hear the sermon.
However， if these good Haudriettes were， for the moment， complying with the statutes of Pierre d'Ailly， they certainly violated with joy those of Michel de Brache， and the Cardinal of Pisa， which so inhumanly enjoined silence upon them.
“What is this， sister？”said Agnès to Gauchère， gazing at the little creature exposed， which was screaming and writhing on the wooden bed， terrified by so many glances.
“What is to become of us， ”said Jehanne， “if that is the way children are made now？”
“I'm not learned in the matter of children， ”resumed Agnès， “but it must be a sin to look at this one.”
“'Tis not a child， Agnès.”
“'Tis an abortion of a monkey， ”remarked Gauchère.
“'Tis a miracle， ”interposed Henriette la Gaultière.
“Then， ”remarked Agnès， “it is the third since the Sunday of the Loetare：for， in less than a week， we had the miracle of the mocker of pilgrims divinely punished by Notre-Dame d'Aubervilliers， and that was the second miracle within a month.”
“This pretended foundling is a real monster of abomination， ”resumed Jehanne.
“He yells loud enough to deafen a chanter， ”continued Gauchère.“Hold your tongue， you little howler！”
“To think that Monsieur of Reims sent this enormity to Monsieur of Paris， ”added la Gaultière， clasping her hands.
“I imagine， ”said Agnès la Herme， “that it is a beast， an animal， —the fruit of—a Jew and a sow； something not Christian， in short， which ought to be thrown into the fire or into the water.”
“I really hope， ”resumed la Gaultière， “that nobody will apply for it.”
“Ah， good heavens！”exclaimed Agnès； “those poor nurses yonder in the foundling asylum， which forms the lower end of the lane as you go to the river， just beside Monseigneur the bishop！what if this little monster were to be carried to them to suckle？I'd rather give suck to a vampire.”
“How innocent that poor la Herme is！”resumed Jehanne； “don't you see， sister， that this little monster is at least four years old， and that he would have less appetite for your breast than for a turnspit.”
The“little monster”we should find it difficult ourselves to describe him otherwise， was， in fact， not a new-born child. It was a very angular and very lively little mass， imprisoned in its linen sack， stamped with the cipher of Messire Guillaume Chartier， then bishop of Paris， with a head projecting.That head was deformed enough； one beheld only a forest of red hair， one eye， a mouth， and teeth.The eye wept， the mouth cried， and the teeth seemed to ask only to be allowed to bite.The whole struggled in the sack， to the great consternation of the crowd， which increased and was renewed incessantly around it.
Dame Aloise de Gondelaurier， a rich and noble woman， who held by the hand a pretty girl about five or six years of age， and dragged a long veil about， suspended to the golden horn of her headdress， halted as she passed the wooden bed， and gazed for a moment at the wretched creature， while her charming little daughter， Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier， spelled out with her tiny， pretty finger， the permanent inion attached to the wooden bed：“Foundlings.”
“Really， ”said the dame， turning away in disgust， “I thought that they only exposed children here.”
She turned her back， throwing into the basin a silver florin， which rang among the liards， and made the poor goodwives of the chapel of Etienne Haudry open their eyes.
A moment later， the grave and learned Robert Mistricolle， the king's protonotary， passed， with an enormous missal under one arm and his wife on the other， having thus by his side his two regulators， —spiritual and temporal.
“Foundling！”he said， after examining the object； “found， apparently， on the banks of the river Phlegethon.”
“One can only see one eye， ”observed Damoiselle Guillemette； “there is a wart on the other.”
“It's not a wart， ”returned Master Robert Mistricolle， “it is an egg which contains another demon exactly similar， who bears another little egg which contains another devil， and so on.”
“How do you know that？”asked Guillemette la Mairesse.
“I know it pertinently， ”replied the protonotary.
“Monsieur le protonotare， ”asked Gauchère， “what do you prognosticate of this pretended foundling？”
“The greatest misfortunes， ”replied Mistricolle.
“Ah！good heavens！”said an old woman among the spectators， “and that besides our having had a considerable pestilence last year， and that they say that the English are going to disembark in a company at Harfleur.”
“Perhaps that will prevent the queen from coming to Paris in the month of September， ”interposed another； “trade is so bad already.”
“My opinion is， ”exclaimed Jehanne de la Tarme， “that it would be better for the louts of Paris， if this little magician were put to bed on a fagot than on a plank.”
“A fine， flaming fagot， ”added the old woman.
“It would be more prudent， ”said Mistricolle.
For several minutes， a young priest had been listening to the reasoning of the Haudriettes and the sentences of the notary. He had a severe face， with a large brow， a profound glance.He thrust the crowd silently aside， scrutinized the“little magician， ”and stretched out his hand upon him.It was high time， for all the devotees were already licking their chops over the“fine， flaming fagot.”
“I adopt this child， ”said the priest.
He took it in his cassock and carried it off. The spectators followed him with frightened glances.A moment later， he had disappeared through the“Red Door， ”which then led from the church to the cloister.
When the first surprise was over， Jehanne de la Tarme bent down to the ear of la Gaultière， —
“I told you so， sister， —that young clerk， Monsieur Claude Frollo， is a sorcerer.”
Chapter2 Claude Frollo
In fact， Claude Frollo was no common person. He belonged to one of those middle-class families which were called indifferently， in the impertinent language of the last century， the high bourgeoise or the petty nobility.This family had inherited from the brothers Paclet the fief of Tirechappe， which was dependent upon the Bishop of Paris， and whose twenty-one houses had been in the thirteenth century the object of so many suits before the official.As possessor of this fief， Claude Frollo was one of the twenty-seven seigneurs keeping claim to a manor in fee in Paris and its suburbs； and for a long time， his name was to be seen inscribed in this quality， between the H?tel de Tancarville， belonging to Master Francis Le Rez， and the college of Tours， in the records deposited at Saint Martin des Champs.
Claude Frollo had been destined from infancy， by his parents， to the ecclesiastical profession. He had been taught to read in Latin； he had been trained to keep his eyes on the ground and to speak low.While still a child， his father had cloistered him in the college of Torchi in the University.There it was that he had grown up， on the missal and the lexicon.
Moreover， he was a sad， grave， serious child， who studied ardently， and learned quickly； he never uttered a loud cry in recreation hour， mixed but little in the bacchanals of the Rue du Fouarre， did not know what it was to dare alapas et capillos laniare15， and had cut no figure in that revolt of 1463， which the annalists register gravely， under the title of“The sixth trouble of the University.”He seldom rallied the poor students of Montaigu on the cappettes from which they derived their name， or the bursars of the college of Dormans on their shaved tonsure， and their surtout parti-colored of bluish-green， blue， and violet cloth， azurini coloris et bruni， as says the charter of the Cardinal des Quatre-Couronnes.
On the other hand， he was assiduous at the great and the small schools of the Rue Saint Jean de Beauvais.The first pupil whom the Abbéde Saint Pierre de Val， at the moment of beginning his reading on canon law， always perceived， glued to a pillar of the school Saint-Vendregesile， opposite his rostrum， was Claude Frollo， armed with his horn ink-bottle， biting his pen， scribbling on his threadbare knee， and， in winter， blowing on his fingers. The first auditor whom Messire Miles d'Isliers， doctor in decretals， saw arrive every Monday morning， all breathless， at the opening of the gates of the school of the Chef-Saint-Denis， was Claude Frollo.Thus， at sixteen years of age， the young clerk might have held his own， in mystical theology， against a father of the church； in canonical theology， against a father of the councils； in scholastic theology， against a doctor of Sorbonne.
Theology conquered， he had plunged into decretals. From the“Master of Sentences， ”he had passed to the“Capitularies of Charlemagne； ”and he had devoured in succession， in his appetite for science， decretals upon decretals， those of Theodore， Bishop of Hispalus； those of Bouchard， Bishop of Worms； those of Yves， Bishop of Chartres； next the decretal of Gratian， which succeeded the capitularies of Charlemagne； then the collection of Gregory IX.； then the Epistle of Superspecula， of Honorius III.He rendered clear and familiar to himself that vast and tumultuous period of civil law and canon law in conflict and at strife with each other， in the chaos of the Middle Ages， —a period which Bishop Theodore opens in 618， and which Pope Gregory closes in 1227.
Decretals digested， he flung himself upon medicine， on the liberal arts. He studied the science of herbs， the science of unguents； he became an expert in fevers and in contusions， in sprains and abcesses.Jacques d'Espars would have received him as a physician； Richard Hellain， as a surgeon.He also passed through all the degrees of licentiate， master， and doctor of arts.He studied the languages， Latin， Greek， Hebrew， a triple sanctuary then very little frequented.His was a veritable fever for acquiring and hoarding， in the matter of science.At the age of eighteen， he had made his way through the four faculties； it seemed to the young man that life had but one sole object：learning.
It was towards this epoch， that the excessive heat of the summer of 1466 caused that grand outburst of the plague which carried off more than forty thousand souls in the vicomty of Paris， and among others， as Jean de Troyes states， “Master Arnoul， astrologer to the king， who was a very fine man， both wise and pleasant.”The rumor spread in the University that the Rue Tirechappe was especially devastated by the malady. It was there that Claude's parents resided， in the midst of their fief.The young scholar rushed in great alarm to the paternal mansion.When he entered it， he found that both father and mother had died on the preceding day.A very young brother of his， who was in swaddling clothes， was still alive and crying abandoned in his cradle.This was all that remained to Claude of his family； the young man took the child under his arm and went off in a pensive mood.Up to that moment， he had lived only in science； he now began to live in life.
This catastrophe was a crisis in Claude's existence. Orphaned， the eldest， head of the family at the age of nineteen， he felt himself rudely recalled from the reveries of school to the realities of this world.Then， moved with pity， he was seized with passion and devotion towards that child， his brother； a sweet and strange thing was a human affection to him， who had hitherto loved his books alone.
This affection developed to a singular point； in a soul so new， it was like a first love. Separated since infancy from his parents， whom he had hardly known； cloistered and immured， as it were， in his books； eager above all things to study and to learn； exclusively attentive up to that time， to his intelligence which broadened in science， to his imagination， which expanded in letters， —the poor scholar had not yet had time to feel the place of his heart.
This young brother， without mother or father， this little child which had fallen abruptly from heaven into his arms， made a new man of him. He perceived that there was something else in the world besides the speculations of the Sorbonne， and the verses of Homer； that man needed affections； that life without tenderness and without love was only a set of dry， shrieking， and rending wheels.Only， he imagined， for he was at the age when illusions are as yet replaced only by illusions， that the affections of blood and family were the sole ones necessary， and that a little brother to love sufficed to fill an entire existence.
He threw himself， therefore， into the love for his little Jehan with the passion of a character already profound， ardent， concentrated； that poor frail creature， pretty， fair-haired， rosy， and curly， —that orphan with another orphan for his only support， touched him to the bottom of his heart； and grave thinker as he was， he set to meditating upon Jehan with an infinite compassion. He kept watch and ward over him as over something very fragile， and very worthy of care.He was more than a brother to the child； he became a mother to him.
Little Jehan had lost his mother while he was still at the breast； Claude gave him to a nurse. Besides the fief of Tirechappe， he had inherited from his father the fief of Moulin， which was a dependency of the square tower of Gentilly； it was a mill on a hill， near the chateau of Winchestre.There was a miller's wife there who was nursing a fine child； it was not far from the university， and Claude carried the little Jehan to her in his own arms.
From that time forth， feeling that he had a burden to bear， he took life very seriously. The thought of his little brother became not only his recreation， but the object of his studies.He resolved to consecrate himself entirely to a future for which he was responsible in the sight of God， and never to have any other wife， any other child than the happiness and fortune of his brother.Therefore， he attached himself more closely than ever to the clerical profession.His merits， his learning， his quality of immediate vassal of the Bishop of Paris， threw the doors of the church wide open to him.At the age of twenty， by special dispensation of the Holy See， he was a priest， and served as the youngest of the chaplains of Notre-Dame the altar which is called， because of the late mass which is said there， altare pigrorum.
There， plunged more deeply than ever in his dear books， which he quitted only to run for an hour to the fief of Moulin， this mixture of learning and austerity， so rare at his age， had promptly acquired for him the respect and admiration of the monastery. From the cloister， his reputation as a learned man had passed to the people， among whom it had changed a little， a frequent occurrence at that time， into reputation as a sorcerer.
It was at the moment when he was returning， on Quasimodo day， from saying his mass at the Altar of the Lazy， which was by the side of the door leading to the nave on the right， near the image of the Virgin， that his attention had been attracted by the group of old women chattering around the bed for foundlings.
Then it was that he approached the unhappy little creature， which was so hated and so menaced.That distress， that deformity， that abandonment， the thought of his young brother， the idea which suddenly occurred to him， that if he were to die， his dear little Jehan might also be flung miserably on the plank for foundlings， —all this had gone to his heart simultaneously； a great pity had moved in him， and he had carried off the child.
When he removed the child from the sack， he found it greatly deformed， in very sooth. The poor little wretch had a wart on his left eye， his head placed directly on his shoulders， his spinal column was crooked， his breast bone prominent， and his legs bowed； but he appeared to be lively； and although it was impossible to say in what language he lisped， his cry indicated considerable force and health.Claude's compassion increased at the sight of this ugliness； and he made a vow in his heart to rear the child for the love of his brother， in order that， whatever might be the future faults of the little Jehan， he should have beside him that charity done for his sake.It was a sort of investment of good works， which he was effecting in the name of his young brother； it was a stock of good works which he wished to amass in advance for him， in case the little rogue should some day find himself short of that coin， the only sort which is received at the toll-bar of paradise.
He baptized his adopted child， and gave him the name of Quasimodo， either because he desired thereby to mark the day， when he had found him， or because he wished to designate by that name to what a degree the poor little creature was incomplete， and hardly sketched out. In fact， Quasimodo， blind， hunchbacked， knock-kneed， was only an“almost.”
Chapter3 Immanis Pecoris Custos， Immanior Ipse
Now， in 1482， Quasimodo had grown up. He had become a few years previously the bellringer of Notre-Dame， thanks to his father by adoption， Claude Frollo， —who had become archdeacon of Josas， thanks to his suzerain， Messire Louis de Beaumont， —who had become Bishop of Paris， at the death of Guillaume Chartier in 1472， thanks to his patron， Olivier Le Daim， barber to Louis XI.， king by the grace of God.
So Quasimodo was the ringer of the chimes of Notre-Dame.
In the course of time there had been formed a certain peculiarly intimate bond which united the ringer to the church. Separated forever from the world， by the double fatality of his unknown birth and his natural deformity， imprisoned from his infancy in that impassable double circle， the poor wretch had grown used to seeing nothing in this world beyond the religious walls which had received him under their shadow.Notre-Dame had been to him successively， as he grew up and developed， the egg， the nest， the house， the country， the universe.
There was certainly a sort of mysterious and pre-existing harmony between this creature and this church. When， still a little fellow， he had dragged himself tortuously and by jerks beneath the shadows of its vaults， he seemed， with his human face and his bestial limbs， the natural reptile of that humid and sombre pavement， upon which the shadow of the Romanesque capitals cast so many strange forms.
Later on， the first time that he caught hold， mechanically， of the ropes to the towers， and hung suspended from them， and set the bell to clanging， it produced upon his adopted father， Claude， the effect of a child whose tongue is unloosed and who begins to speak.
It is thus that， little by little， developing always in sympathy with the cathedral， living there， sleeping there， hardly ever leaving it， subject every hour to the mysterious impress， he came to resemble it， he incrusted himself in it， so to speak， and became an integral part of it. His salient angles fitted into the retreating angles of the cathedral， and he seemed not only its inhabitant but more than that， its natural tenant.One might almost say that he had assumed its form， as the snail takes on the form of its shell.It was his dwelling， his hole， his envelope.There existed between him and the old church so profound an instinctive sympathy， so many magnetic affinities， so many material affinities， that he adhered to it somewhat as a tortoise adheres to its shell.The rough and wrinkled cathedral was his shell.
It is useless to warn the reader not to take literally all the similes which we are obliged to employ here to express the singular， symmetrical， direct， almost consubstantial union of a man and an edifice. It is equally unnecessary to state to what a degree that whole cathedral was familiar to him， after so long and so intimate a cohabitation.That dwelling was peculiar to him.It had no depths to which Quasimodo had not penetrated， no height which he had not scaled.He often climbed many stones up the front， aided solely by the uneven points of the carving.The towers， on whose exterior surface he was frequently seen clambering， like a lizard gliding along a perpendicular wall， those two gigantic twins， so lofty， so menacing， so formidable， possessed for him neither vertigo， nor terror， nor shocks of amazement.
To see them so gentle under his hand， so easy to scale， one would have said that he had tamed them. By dint of leaping， climbing， gambolling amid the abysses of the gigantic cathedral he had become， in some sort， a monkey and a goat， like the Calabrian child who swims before he walks， and plays with the sea while still a babe.
Moreover， it was not his body alone which seemed fashioned after the Cathedral， but his mind also.In what condition was that mind？What bent had it contracted， what form had it assumed beneath that knotted envelope， in that savage life？This it would be hard to determine.Quasimodo had been born one-eyed， hunchbacked， lame.It was with great difficulty， and by dint of great patience that Claude Frollo had succeeded in teaching him to talk.But a fatality was attached to the poor foundling.Bellringer of Notre-Dame at the age of fourteen， a new infirmity had come to complete his misfortunes：the bells had broken the drums of his ears； he had become deaf.The only gate which nature had left wide open for him had been abruptly closed， and forever.
In closing， it had cut off the only ray of joy and of light which still made its way into the soul of Quasimodo. His soul fell into profound night.The wretched being's misery became as incurable and as complete as his deformity.Let us add that his deafness rendered him to some extent dumb.For， in order not to make others laugh， the very moment that he found himself to be deaf， he resolved upon a silence which he only broke when he was alone.He voluntarily tied that tongue which Claude Frollo had taken so much pains to unloose.Hence， it came about， that when necessity constrained him to speak， his tongue was torpid， awkward， and like a door whose hinges have grown rusty.
