Читать книгу Собор Парижской богоматери / Notre-Dame de Paris - Виктор Мари Гюго, Clara Inés Bravo Villarreal - Страница 6

In the twinkling of an eye, all was ready to execute Coppenole’s idea. Everyone set to work. The little chapel situated opposite the marble table was selected for the scene of the grinning match. A pane broken in the pretty rose window above the door, left free a circle of stone. That was agreed upon as the hole that the competitors should thrust their heads in. In order to reach it, it was only necessary to mount upon a couple of hogsheads. It was settled so that each candidate should cover his face and remain concealed in the chapel until the moment of his appearance. In less than an instant, the chapel was crowded with competitors.

Coppenole directed all. During the uproar, the cardinal had retired to his suite, under the pretext of business.

The grimaces began. A second and third grimace followed, then another and another; and the laughter went on increasing.

“Just look at that face!”

“It’s not good for anything.”

“Another!”

“Good! Good!”

As for Gringoire, it was far worse than it had been a little while before. He no longer beheld anything but backs.

There was a thunder of applause. The Pope of the Fools had been elected.

“Noël! Noël! Noël![2]” shouted the people on all sides. A marvellous grimace was beaming at that moment through the aperture in the rose window. It had a tetrahedral nose, a horseshoe mouth; one little left eye obstructed with a red, bushy, bristling eyebrow, while the right eye disappearing entirely beneath an enormous wart. Teeth were in disarray, broken here and there. The whole expression was a mixture of malice, amazement, and sadness.

People rushed towards the chapel. They made the lucky Pope of the Fools come forth in triumph. But it was then that surprise and admiration attained their highest pitch; the grimace was his face.

Or rather, his whole person was a grimace. A huge head, bristling with red hair; between his shoulders was an enormous hump; crooked legs; large feet, monstrous hands; and, with all this deformity, an indescribable air of agility and courage.

When he appeared on the threshold of the chapel, the people recognized him on the instant, and shouted with one voice,—

“’Tis Quasimodo, the bellringer! ’tis Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre-Dame! Quasimodo, the one-eyed!”

“Oh! the horrible monkey!” said one of the women.

“As wicked as he is ugly,” retorted another.

“He’s the devil,” added a third.

The men, on the contrary[3], were delighted.

Master Coppenole, in amazement, approached him.

“Cross of God! Holy Father! you possess the handsomest ugliness that I have ever beheld in my life. You would deserve to be pope at Rome, as well as at Paris.”

So saying, he placed his hand gayly on his shoulder. Quasimodo did not stir. Coppenole went on,—

“You are a rogue with whom I have a fancy for carousing, were it to cost me a new dozen of twelve livres of Tours. What do you say?”

Quasimodo made no reply.

“Are you deaf?”

He was, in truth, deaf.

“Deaf!” said the hosier, with his great Flemish laugh. “Cross of God! He’s a perfect pope!”

“Ha! I recognize him,” exclaimed Jehan, “he’s the bellringer of my brother, the archdeacon. Good-day, Quasimodo!”

“He speaks when he chooses,” said the old woman; “he became deaf through ringing the bells. He is not dumb.”

Everyone koined together to seek the cardboard tiara and the derisive robe of the Pope of the Fools. Quasimodo allowed them to array him in them. Then they made him seat himself on a plank. Twelve people raised him on their shoulders; then the procession set out on its march around the inner galleries of the Courts, before making the circuit of the streets and squares.