However, at the moment when Master Florian was reading the sentence, before signing it, the clerk felt himself moved with pity for the poor wretch of a prisoner, and, in the hope of softening the penalty, he approached as near the auditor’s ear as possible, and said, pointing to Quasimodo, “That man is deaf.”
He hoped that this would awaken Master Florian’s interest in behalf of the condemned man. But he was so hard of hearing that he did not catch a single word of what the clerk said to him; nevertheless, he wished to have the appearance of hearing, and replied, “Ah! ah! that is different; I did not know that. An hour more of the pillory, in that case.”
And he signed the sentence.
Chapter II
History of a Leavened Cake of Maize
Three women were gossiping, coming up along the water’s edge from the Châtelet, towards the Grève.
Two of these women were dressed like good bourgeoises of Paris. Their fine white ruffs; their petticoats of linsey-woolsey, striped red and blue; their white knitted stockings, with clocks embroidered in colors. They wore neither rings nor gold crosses, simply from fear of being fined. Their companion was attired in very much the same manner; but there was that indescribable something about her dress and bearing which suggested the wife of a provincial notary. One could see that she had not been long in Paris. She was dragging a boy by his hand.
“Let us make haste, Demoiselle Mahiette,” said the youngest of the three, who was also the largest, to the provincial, “I greatly fear that we shall arrive too late; they told us at the Châtelet that they were going to take him directly to the pillory.”
One of the other ladies was preparing to reply, had not Mahiette suddenly exclaimed,—“Look at those people there at the end of the bridge! What are they looking at?”
“I hear the sounds of a tambourine. I believe ’tis the little Esmeralda, who plays her mummeries with her goat. Eh, be quick, Mahiette! You came to visit the curiosities of Paris. You saw the Flemings yesterday; you must see the gypsy today.”
“The gypsy!” said Mahiette, clasping her son’s arm forcibly. “God preserve me from it! She would steal my child from me! Come, Eustache!”
“That gypsy steal your child from you!” said Gervaise. “That’s a singular freak of yours!”
“Why do you run at the mere sight of gypsies?”
“Oh!” said Mahiette, seizing her child’s round head in both hands, “I don’t want that to happen to me which happened to Paquette la Chantefleurie.”
“Oh! you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette,” said Gervaise, taking her arm.
“Gladly,” replied Mahiette, “Paquette la Chantefleurie was a pretty maid of eighteen when I was one myself, that is to say, eighteen years ago. She was the daughter of Guybertant, minstrel of the barges at Reims. You see she was of good family. The mother was a good simple woman, unfortunately, and she taught Paquette nothing but a bit of embroidery and toy-making which did not prevent the little one from growing very large and remaining very poor. Poor girl! She and her mother earned a precarious living; they had been very destitute since the death of the minstrel. One winter, when the two women had neither fagots nor firewood, she was ruined. We immediately perceived that she was ruined, one Sunday when she came to church with a gold cross about her neck. At fourteen years of age! do you see? First it was the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil; then Messire Henri de Triancourt, equerry to the King; then less than that, Chiart de Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still descending, Guery Aubergeon, carver to the King; then, Macé de Frépus, barber to monsieur the dauphin; then, Thévenin le Moine, King’s cook; then, the men growing continually younger and less noble, she fell to Guillaume Racine, minstrel of the hurdy-gurdy and to Thierry de Mer, lamplighter. Then, poor Chantefleurie, she belonged to every one: she had reached the last sou of her gold piece.”
Mahiette sighed and wiped away a tear which trickled from her eyes.
“This is not an extraordinary history,” said Gervaise, “and in the whole of it I see nothing of any Egyptian women or children.”
“Patience!” resumed Mahiette, “In ’66, Paquette was brought to bed of a little girl. It was a great joy to her; she had long wished for a child. Her mother, good woman, was dead. Paquette had no longer any one to love in the world or any one to love her. She was alone, alone in this life, fingers were pointed at her, she was hooted at in the streets. And then, twenty had arrived: and twenty is an old age for amorous women. She could no longer work because, in becoming voluptuous, she had grown lazy; and she suffered much more because, in growing lazy, she had become voluptuous.”
“Yes,” remarked Gervaise, “but the gypsies?”
“So she was very sad, very miserable. I will not speak to you of her joy when she had a daughter. She nursed her child herself, made swaddling-bands for it out of her coverlet, the only one which she had on her bed, and no longer felt either cold or hunger. She became beautiful once more, in consequence of it. An old maid makes a young mother. Men came to see la Chantefleurie; she found customers again for her merchandise, and out of all these horrors she made baby clothes, caps and bibs, bodices with shoulder-straps of lace, and tiny bonnets. I saw her child when she was only four months old; she was a love! She had eyes larger than her mouth, and the most charming black hair, which already curled. She would have been a magnificent brunette at the age of sixteen!”
“The tale is fair and good,” said Gervaise in a low tone; “but where do gypsies come into all that?”
“Here,” replied Mahiette. “One day there arrived in Reims a very queer sort of people. They were beggars and vagabonds who were roaming over the country. They looked at your hand, and told you marvellous prophecies. Nevertheless, ugly rumors were in circulation in regard to them; about children stolen, purses cut, and human flesh devoured. The wise people said to the foolish: “Don’t go there!” and then went themselves on the sly. Poor Chantefleurie was seized with curiosity; she wished to know about herself, and whether her pretty little Agnès would not become some day Empress of Armenia, or something else. So she carried her to the Egyptians; and the Egyptian women fell to admiring the child, to the great joy of the mother. The child was not yet a year old. She was very much frightened by the Egyptians, and wept. But her mother kissed her more warmly and went away enchanted with the good fortune which the soothsayers had foretold for her Agnès. The next day she took advantage of a moment when the child was asleep on her bed, gently left the door a little way open, and ran to tell a neighbor. On her return, hearing no cries on the staircase, she said to herself: ‘Good! the child is still asleep!’ She found her door wider open than she had left it, but she entered, poor mother, and ran to the bed.—The child was no longer there, the place was empty. She flew out of the room, dashed down the stairs, and began to cry: ‘My child! who has my child? Who has taken my child?’ The street was deserted, the house isolated; no one could tell her anything about it. She went about the town, searched all the streets. During her absence, a neighbor had seen two gypsies ascend up to it with a bundle in their arms, then descend again, after closing the door. After their departure, something like the cries of a child were heard in Paquette’s room. The mother, burst into shrieks of laughter, ran to the room. Instead of her pretty little Agnès, so rosy and so fresh, there was a hideous little monster, lame, one-eyed, deformed. She burst out sobbing as though her heart were broken. I assure you that we were all weeping also. Our children are the marrow of our bones, you see. By that time the gypsies were gone. It was pitch dark. They could not be followed. On the next day, her hair turned gray gray. On the second day, she had disappeared.