99 lines
4.4 KiB
Markdown
99 lines
4.4 KiB
Markdown
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---
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date: 2017-04-14T11:25:05-04:00
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description: "Esmeralda"
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featured_image: "/images/esmeralda.jpg"
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tags: []
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title: "Chapter VI: Esmeralda"
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---
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We are delighted to be able to inform the reader, that during the whole of
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this scene, Gringoire and his piece had stood firm. His actors, spurred on
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by him, had not ceased to spout his comedy, and he had not ceased to
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listen to it. He had made up his mind about the tumult, and was determined
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to proceed to the end, not giving up the hope of a return of attention on
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the part of the public. This gleam of hope acquired fresh life, when he
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saw Quasimodo, Coppenole, and the deafening escort of the pope of the
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procession of fools quit the hall amid great uproar. The throng rushed
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eagerly after them. “Good,” he said to himself, “there go all the
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mischief-makers.” Unfortunately, all the mischief-makers constituted the
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entire audience. In the twinkling of an eye, the grand hall was empty.
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To tell the truth, a few spectators still remained, some scattered, others
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in groups around the pillars, women, old men, or children, who had had
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enough of the uproar and tumult. Some scholars were still perched astride
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of the window-sills, engaged in gazing into the Place.
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“Well,” thought Gringoire, “here are still as many as are required to hear
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the end of my mystery. They are few in number, but it is a choice
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audience, a lettered audience.”
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An instant later, a symphony which had been intended to produce the
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greatest effect on the arrival of the Virgin, was lacking. Gringoire
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perceived that his music had been carried off by the procession of the
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Pope of the Fools. “Skip it,” said he, stoically.
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He approached a group of bourgeois, who seemed to him to be discussing his
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piece. This is the fragment of conversation which he caught,—
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“You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hôtel de Navarre, which belonged to
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Monsieur de Nemours?”
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“Yes, opposite the Chapelle de Braque.”
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“Well, the treasury has just let it to Guillaume Alixandre, historian, for
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six hivres, eight sols, parisian, a year.”
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“How rents are going up!”
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“Come,” said Gringoire to himself, with a sigh, “the others are
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listening.”
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“Comrades,” suddenly shouted one of the young scamps from the window, “La
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Esmeralda! La Esmeralda in the Place!”
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This word produced a magical effect. Every one who was left in the hall
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flew to the windows, climbing the walls in order to see, and repeating,
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“La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda?” At the same time, a great sound of applause
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was heard from without.
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“What’s the meaning of this, of the Esmeralda?” said Gringoire, wringing
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his hands in despair. “Ah, good heavens! it seems to be the turn of the
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windows now.”
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He returned towards the marble table, and saw that the representation had
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been interrupted. It was precisely at the instant when Jupiter should have
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appeared with his thunder. But Jupiter was standing motionless at the foot
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of the stage.
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“Michel Giborne!” cried the irritated poet, “what are you doing there? Is
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that your part? Come up!”
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“Alas!” said Jupiter, “a scholar has just seized the ladder.”
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Gringoire looked. It was but too true. All communication between his plot
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and its solution was intercepted.
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“The rascal,” he murmured. “And why did he take that ladder?”
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“In order to go and see the Esmeralda,” replied Jupiter piteously. “He
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said, ‘Come, here’s a ladder that’s of no use!’ and he took it.”
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This was the last blow. Gringoire received it with resignation.
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“May the devil fly away with you!” he said to the comedian, “and if I get
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my pay, you shall receive yours.”
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Then he beat a retreat, with drooping head, but the last in the field,
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like a general who has fought well.
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And as he descended the winding stairs of the courts: “A fine rabble of
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asses and dolts these Parisians!” he muttered between his teeth; “they
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come to hear a mystery and don’t listen to it at all! They are engrossed
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by every one, by Chopin Trouillefou, by the cardinal, by Coppenole, by
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Quasimodo, by the devil! but by Madame the Virgin Mary, not at all. If I
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had known, I’d have given you Virgin Mary; you ninnies! And I! to come to
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see faces and behold only backs! to be a poet, and to reap the success of
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an apothecary! It is true that Homerus begged through the Greek towns, and
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that Naso died in exile among the Muscovites. But may the devil flay me if
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I understand what they mean with their Esmeralda! What is that word, in
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the first place?—‘tis Egyptian!”
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