This law of the Gypsies, which may seem strange to you, is in fact still in its original form today in the old English religious code. You may wish to refer to the book "The Notes of Berlinton". Grandcourt breathed a sigh of relief. It was the second time in half an hour that he had come back from the dead. Therefore, he dared not be overly trusting.
"Oh, hey!" Klopan shouted as he resumed his throne. "Oi! Women, pussies, what slut among you, witch or witch's she-cat, wants this lecher? Colette Charona! Elizabeth Truwan! Simone Jorduina! Marie Pied de Bourg! Tona Longe! Bellard Fanuel! Michèle Genée! Claude Longe Aurelien! Madoulin Giraud! Hello. Isabeau Thierry! Isabeau Thierry! Come and see! I'll give you a man for free! Who wants it?"
Grandgoire was in a state of despondency, and probably did not look as if he would be able to whet anyone's appetite. The call-girls appeared indifferent to the offer, and the unfortunate man only heard them say, "No. No! No! Hang him! We can all have fun!" Three, however, came from the crowd to sniff him. The first, a fat girl with a square face, scrutinized the philosopher's shabby blouse. It was full of holes, more holes than a large spoon for frying chestnuts. The girl made a face and muttered, "Rags!" Then she said to Grandcourt, "Look at your cloak, will you?"
1) The women's names, which were cobbled together using harmonies or double entendres, contained vulgar, obscene meanings
. For example, Colette "Three Hands", Elizabeth "Hollow Hole", Mary "Upright Legs", Tona "Long Legs",
Claude, the "ear-chewer", and so on.
"Lost." Glenguard responded.
"Where's your hat?"
"People took it."
"And your shoes?"
"Almost out of soles."
"Where's your wallet?"
"Ugh!" Grandcueva squeaked in response. "I'm penniless na."
"Then you let hang and say thank you!" The female caller said back, turning around and walking away. The second was old and dark, wrinkled and ugly, ugly even in this court of wonders. She circled around Grandcourt, and frightened him like a sieve, lest she should take him. But she whispered, "He's too thin." As soon as she had said that, she walked away.
The third was a young girl, rather sultry and not too hard to look at. The wretch whispered to her, "Help me!" She scrutinized him with pity for a moment, then lowered her eyes and rubbed her skirt, uncertain. He watched her every movement; it was the last hope. At last the young girl spoke: "No, no! Long-cheeked Guillaume will beat me." As soon as she finished speaking, she too went back into the crowd.
"Man, you're out of luck!" Klopan said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he then stood up on the vat and shouted, "No takers?" He imitated the accent of an auction appraiser, to the amusement of all. "No takers? One--two--three!" Then, turning to the gallows, he nodded: "Auction's on!" The star Belvini, the red-faced André and the drunken Fran?ois approached Grandcourt. At that very moment, a cry arose from the gang of black talkers: "Esmeralda! Esmeralda!"
Grandgoyle shuddered and turned his head to look over to where the clamor was coming from, only to see the crowd move aside to make way for a beautiful woman, pure and radiant as jade.
It was the gypsy girl.
"Esmeralda!" Grandgueva muttered to himself, awestruck and thrilled, as the spellbinding name jolted back all the memories of his day. It seemed that even the Court of Wonders was mesmerized by the beauty and charm of this rare creature. As she passed, the men and women of the Black Tongue lined up obediently in two rows; and as far as the eye could see, the rough faces opened up like flowers, glowing with radiance. She walks with a light step to the condemned man. She is followed by the beautiful girls. Glenguard was half dead with fear, and she surveyed him silently for a moment.
"Are you going to hang this man?" She asked Klopan gravely.
"Yes, sister." King Dinar responded. "Unless you want him for a husband."
She pouted her lower lip and did her usual petulant thing slightly.
"I'll take it." She said.
Grunguard was now convinced that he had been dreaming since morning, and that this was a continuation of that dream. In fact, the climax of the dream, though breathtaking, was too much. The knot was untied, and the poet was lifted off the stool. He was so excited that he had to sit down. The Grand Duke of Egypt, without a word, brought a jar. The gypsy girl handed the jar to Glenguard and said to him, "Drop it to the ground!" The tile jar fell into four pieces. "Brother," the Grand Duke of Egypt spoke at that moment, pressing each hand on both of their foreheads as he spoke. "Brother, she is your wife; sister, he is your husband. The marriage is for four years. All right!"
VII THE WEDDING NIGHT
A little later, our poet was in a small, tight, warm, pointed-vaulted, domed room, seated at a table that looked as if it could not wait to borrow something from the food cupboards that hung nearby, with a comfortable bed as far as could be imagined
, and alone with a pretty maiden. It was as if by magic. He couldn't help but think of himself as a mythological figure. From time to time he looked around him as if he were searching for the flaming chariot drawn by two fire-breathing beasts,
which alone could have conveyed him from the Tartars to the heavens with such speed. Sometimes he stared at the holes in his shirt, in order to hold on to the reality, so that his feet would not be completely
ungrounded. His sanity, fluttering in this imaginary space, was now only held together by this thread.
The girl looked unconcerned about him, walking around, sometimes tripping over a stool, sometimes talking to her little goat, sometimes pouting here and there. At length she came and sat down at the table, and Grandcois was now at liberty to examine her. You were a child, my lord, and perhaps you would like to be one now. You may
on more than one occasion (I myself used to spend all day and all night like that, and it was the best time of my life), on a sunny day, by the edge of a fast-flowing stream, going from clump to clump of grass, chasing the beautiful green or blue dragonfly, which fluttered and danced, and whirled and twirled, and kissed the tip of every branch. You remember how you gazed with love and curiosity at the rustling, gently whirling wings of vermilion and sky blue; in these rapid whirling whirls, the elusive form, which, because of the extreme rapidity of its flight, appeared as if it were covered with a veil, was fluttering. The lightness of the creature, vaguely outlined through the vibrations of the wings,
looks to you as if it were an illusion, purely imagined, untouchable and unseen. But once the dragonfly perches on the tip of the reed, and you can watch with bated breath the gauzy wings, the spotted robe, the two crystal eyes, how can you not be amazed? How could you not fear that the form would revert to shadow, the creature to illusion? Recall these impressions, and it will not be difficult for you to understand what Grandcourt felt at this moment when he gazed at Esmeralda. He had only glimpsed Esmeralda through the whirlwind of song, dance, and noise, but now her visible and tangible form was before him, and he was mesmerized by it. He became more and more absorbed in reverie and meditation, and gazed at her indistinctly, muttering to himself: "So this is the so-called Esmeralda? A nymph! A street dancer! Noble and lowly at the same time! She was the one who finally cut short my miracle play this morning! It was she who saved my life tonight! She's my death knell! And my good angel! -- And a handsome woman, I dare say! And must be madly in love with me to take me like that." And here, with that true feeling which had always been the cornerstone of his character and philosophy, he stood up and said, "Oh, yes! I don't know how it happened, but I became her man!"
With this thought in his mind and in his eyes, he approached the young girl with such a powerful and lustful look that she was frightened and drew back, saying, "What do you want?"
"Do I need to be asked that, sweet Esmeralda?" Grandcourt responded, in a tone so passionate that even he couldn't help but be surprised to hear it. The Egyptian girl stared with a pair of wide eyes, "I don't understand what you are trying to say?" "Why!" Grandcourt added, growing hotter and hotter, thinking that after all he was dealing with nothing more than a chaste woman in a court of wonders. "Do I not belong to you, gentle one? Do you not belong to me as well?"
Now that the words were out of his mouth, he simply held her at arm's length. The gypsy girl's tight-chested blouse slipped out of his hands in a flash like eel skin. She jumped across the room, lowered herself, and then rose again, holding a dagger that Grandcourt did not even try to understand where it had come from. She was furious and proud, her lips curled up, her nostrils bulging, her cheeks as red as apples, and her eyes flashing with electricity. At the same time, the white goat ran and stood in front of her, holding its two beautiful golden horns in a dueling position. It's all in the blink of an eye. The dragonfly became a wasp, eager to sting. Our philosopher was stunned, staring at the goat and then at the maiden.
"O Holy Mother! Look at these two shrewish women!" He said at last, when his shock had settled and he was able to speak. The gypsy girl broke the silence as well. "I can't believe you're such a wanton!" "I'm sorry, ma'am!" Grandcourt said with a smile on his face. "But, in that case, why do you want me for a husband?"
"Do I have to watch you hang?"
"So you married me to save my life and nothing else?" The poet, who had been filled with love, was a little disappointed. "What did you want me to think otherwise?" Biting his lip, Grandcourt added, "Forget it, I'm not as successful as I thought I would be as Choupette. But why break that poor waddy?" However, the dagger in Esmeralda's hand and the horns of the little goat were kept in strict
continuity.
"Ms. Esmeralda, let us compromise with each other!" Poet said. "I am not
the clerk-recorder of the little fortress, and will not find fault with you, and charge you with flouting the Lord Prefect's oracle
and injunction, and waving about Paris with a dagger in this way. It is not unknown to you that a week ago, Noel Leclivan was fined ten Paris soles for carrying a short sword. That said, this is irrelevant to me, so I'll just
get back to the point. I pledge my share of heavenly ascension to you, and swear never to come near you without
your license and permission. But give me my supper quickly."
In fact, Grandgoire, like Mr. Despréaux ②
was "very ill-humored." He
was not one of those knights and musketeers who attacked girls exclusively. In love, as in anything else, he preferred to advocate water under the bridge and compromise. In his opinion
a good meal and a lovely companion, especially when he was hungry
1
2 Despreaux, the famous French writer Nicolas Poirot (1636-1711). He had published in 169
4 years, "the indignity of women", Hugo may not agree with his views, so it is said.
Cupid: the little god of love. The image of a naked little boy holding a bow and arrow. Legend has it that those who are struck by his arrows will
fall in love with the object he has designated.
The reel is like a wonderful
unspeakable intermission between the prologue and the ending of a love story.
The Egyptian lady did not answer. She looked contemptuous, pouted her little
beak, raised her head like a bird, and laughed, and then the little
dagger, as sudden as it had appeared, suddenly disappeared, and Grandcourt failed to see where the bee had hidden the stinger.
A little while later, there was a piece of black bread on the table, a thin slice of lard, a few
dry, wrinkled apples, and a pitcher of straw ale. Grandcourt began to devour it,
the iron fork clanking against the china plate, as if all his love-lust had been turned into
appetite.
The young girl sat in front of him and watched him eat in silence, obviously thinking of something else, with a smile on her face
from time to time, and a gentle little hand gently caressing the smarting head of the goat lazily nestled between her
knees.
A yellow candle illuminated this scene of wolfish gulping and contemplative meditation
.
At this point, Glenguard, after a moment's guttural gurgling had passed, saw that there was only one apple left on the table, and could not help but feel a little embarrassed. "Won't you eat,
Miss Esmeralda?"
She shook her head, her contemplative gaze fixed on the round stemmed top of the small room.
"What the devil is she thinking about?" Grandguard thought, and followed her line of sight
"It can't be the little stone-carved
dwarf making faces in the vaulted ceiling that's catching her attention so much. Living hell! Can I rival it!"
He raised his voice and called out, "Miss!"
She didn't look like she heard him.
He shouted louder, "Miss Esmeralda!"
In vain. The young girl's mind was elsewhere, and the power of Grandgueva's voice was not
enough to call her back. Fortunately, the goat came to intervene, tugging gently at his mistress's
sleeve. The Egyptian woman asked hastily, "What is this, Carrie?"
"It's hungry." Grandcueva responded, mentally glad to be climbing up with her.
Esmeralda, the beauty, broke the bread, and Jiali ate it from the palm of her
nest, daintily.
Without allowing her time for further thoughts, however, Grandcueva had the temerity
to put to her the delicate question,
"Do you really not want me for a husband?"
The maiden glared at him and responded, "No."
"What about being your lover?" Grandcueva asked next.
She pouted and replied, "Don't."
"What about being your friend?" Grandgoire asked again. She glared at him again, thought
and replied, "Maybe."
The word maybe has always been precious to philosophers, and Grandcueva was emboldened
at the sound of it.
"Do you know what friendship is?" He asked.
"Know." The Egyptian woman responded. "Friendship is like a brother and sister, two people
whose souls touch each other without mixing, and like two fingers of a hand."
"And love?" Grandcueva asked again.
"Wow! Love," she said, her voice quivering and her eyes gleaming. "That is two
people yet only one. A man and a woman fused into one angel. That
is heaven!"
The street dancer said this with such flirtatious voluptuousness that it y shocked
Grunguva's mind, and it struck him that the florid beauty went well with the
almost Eastern flavor of her words. The two pure rose-colored lips were half-opened, and
smiling; the innocent and brisk forehead, from time to time a little less
clear from thought, as if a breath had been breathed on a mirror; the long, dark eyelashes
lowered, and at times shed an ineffable splendor, which imparted to her countenance
an aromatic and refreshing poise, and which was the same that Raphael afterwards took from chastity to the heart of his wife. the perfection that Raphael later found in the mysterious intersection of chastity, motherhood, and nature
.
Grangois did not stop there.
"And what kind of man must it be to please you?"
"It has to be a real man."
"And what about me, what am I really like?"
"My idea of a manly man would have an iron helmet on his head, a sword in his hand, and
golden spurs on the heels of his boots."
"Come now, according to you, you are not a man without a horse to ride." Ger
Languava said. "Could it be that you are in love with someone?"
"In love?"
"In love."
She pondered for a moment, then said with a peculiar expression, "I'll know
soon enough."
"Why can't it be tonight? " the poet asked again, fondly. "Why can't
it be me?"
She looked at him with a serious gaze.
"I can only love a man who can protect me."
Grunguva flushed red, but had to admit it. Apparently, the young girl had shadowed
shot that he hadn't done much to aid her in that critical situation two bells ago. This
night, all other kinds of dangerous encounter too much, as a result of the above thing he remembered, this
Then he remembered, and then slapped his forehead, said:
"Right, Miss, I should have started from the thing to talk about it, but instead of pulling things out of the air, I said a lot of
dumb things. How in the world did you escape the clutches of Cazimodo?"
The gypsy girl winced at this.
"Wow! That horrible hunchback!" She said as she covered her face with her hands; shivering
as if from the cold.
"Terrible indeed!" Grandcourt was unrelenting in his efforts to break the ice:
"But how on earth did you get out of it?"
Esmeralda smiled sweetly, sighed, and fell silent.
"Do you know why he followed you?" Grandcueva did his best to take a roundabout
approach and return to the question he had originally posed.
"No idea." The young girl responded, followed by, "But you ①
followed me
as well, why did you?"
"I won't lie, I don't know."
There was a silence. Grandcueva scratched the table with his table knife. The young girl smiled, as if
looking through the wall. Suddenly she sang in slurred tones
:
When the birds of brilliant plumage
are weary, and the earth ...... ②
She crunched to a halt, and stroked the giaoliath up.
①
② Original text in Spanish.
She suddenly switched to "you" to address him, in this case indicating emotional detachment.
"That's a pretty goat you have." Grandgueva said.
"This is my sister." She responded.
"Why do people call you Esmeralda?" The poet asked.
"I have no idea at all."
"Seriously?"
She took from her bodice a small rectangular scented pouch, which was hung around her neck by a necklace of rosary
bead tree fruit. The small scented pouch gave off a strong
camphoraceous odor. It was wrapped in green silk on the outside and had a large green
glass bead in the center that imitated an emerald.
"Maybe it's because of this ①
" She said.
Grunguva reached for the small scented pouch, and she hastily stepped back, saying,
"Don't touch! This is an amulet. If you touch it, you will destroy its mana, or else
its mana will demonize you."
The poet grew curious.
"Who gave it to you?"
She pressed one finger to her lips, and with that she hid the amulet back in her bosom again.
Managed to ask something else, but she barely answered.
"What does Esmeralda mean?"
"I don't know." She replied.
"Which language is it in?"
1) Esmeralda is based on an anagram of the
word émeraude (emerald, emerald) in French. It is preceded by the definite article, which indicates uniqueness, and is translated as "the emerald girl", or
"the emerald woman". Because Grandcourt repeatedly asked what the name meant, if it were translated, it would lose its mystery, and Grandcourt would not suspect that it was an Egyptian incantation.
"It's Egyptian, I think."
"I expected that." Grandcourt said. "You are not French?"
"I know nothing of it."
"Do you have parents?"
She hummed an old song:
My father was a male bird
My mother was a female bird
I crossed the river without a canoe
I crossed the river without a boat
I crossed the river without a big boat
My mother was a female bird
My father was a male bird.
"That's beautiful." Grandcueva said. "At what age did you come to France?"
"A tiny bit old,"
"And to Paris?"
"Last year. I saw yellow warblers flying
up into the sky from the reeds as we came into the city through the Pope's Gate; it was the end of August; and I said, 'It's going to be cold this winter.'"
"It was indeed cold last winter." Grandcueva said, glad to be talking
again. "All winter I breathed into my fingers. So, you were born with the ability to know before you know
Ro?"
She was loving it again.
"No."
"The man you call the Duke of Egypt, he is the leader of your tribe, is he not?"
"Yes."
9
2
1
Holy Mary of Paris
"That's the one who married us." The poet was embarrassed and meant to point this out
.
She pouted again in her customary way and said, "I don't even know your name!"
"My name? If you want to know it, here it is: Pierre Grand
Gouix."
"I know a name more beautiful." She said.
"You are bad!" The poet continued. "But it's okay, I won't be angry with you
. Hey, you might fall in love with me in the future when you get to know me better. Also, since you
trusted me enough to tell me about your life, I have to tell you a little bit about me
as well. As you know, my name is Pierre Grandgois, son of a tenant farmer at the notary's house in Gonesse. When Paris was besieged twenty years ago, my father was hanged
by the Burgundians and my mother killed by the Picardians by disembowelment. I was orphaned at the age of six, and
I had only the gravel pavements of Paris to wear as shoes for all the year. How I survived from the age of six to sixteen
I do not know. I wandered from place to place; here a fruit seller gave me an apricot, there a pastry seller threw me a piece of dry bread to nibble on; at night I tried to get the patrols to take me to jail, where I could find a bale of straw to sleep on. Nevertheless, I grew up thin
and bony, just as you see me. In winter I hid in the sun under the porch of Sands House; and I thought it absurd that St. John's had to wait until the third day of the year to build a fire! When I was sixteen, I made up my mind to find a job, and one after another,
I tried all the three hundred and sixty jobs. First I was a soldier, but I was not brave;
then I was a monk, but I was not pious enough; besides, I was not good at drinking.
There was no other choice but to become a carpenter's apprentice in a large carpentry shop, but I was
thin and not strong enough. I was more suited to be an elementary school teacher, of course,
I couldn't read or write at the time, which was true, but that wasn't the reason I had a hard time.
0
3
1 The Blessed Virgin Mary
After a while, I finally realized that there was something missing in whatever I was doing; and seeing
that I was not going to make a difference, I willingly became a poet and began to write rhymes.
This
profession, as long as the vagabond, anyone can do anytime, anywhere, which is better than stealing
Why, I don't hide it, I have a few of my friends to be a robber boy really persuade me
to go to the road to rob miles. One day I was lucky enough to run into the highly respected
Abbot of Notre Dame, Don Claude Frollo. Thanks to his care and attention, I
have today become a true man of letters, conversant in Latin, from the speeches of Cicero to the eulogies of the Celestine Fathers, as long as they are not barbaric words like scriptural philosophy, poetry, or metre, or sophistry like alchemy,
I know them all. I know nothing of it. I am the author of the play of the miracles which was performed today in the hall of the Palace of Justice, to a crowded
sea of spectators. I have also written a book, printed
in 600 pages, about the great comet which appeared in 1465 and which drove a
person mad. I had a few other accomplishments. As I was more or less
a gun-maker's carpenter, I took part in the making of John Mogg's cannon, which, as you
know, exploded on the day of the trial firing on the Charenton Bridge, killing
twenty-four spectators at once. You see, I'm not so bad as a marriage partner. I
also have many amusing tricks that I could teach your goat, for instance, to imitate
the Bishop of Paris, that damned hypocrite, with his water-mills, which must splash whoever strikes
passes over the bridge of the mill. Besides, my miracle plays would make
me a great deal of ready money, and people would pay me for them. Lastly, I myself, and
my mind, and my learning, and my literary talents, are all entirely at your
command, and I am ready to live with you, and to be faithful or
1 Cicero (106 BCE-43 BCE) was a Latin statesman and famous orator. Celestine
The Church was founded by Celestine V (c. 1215-1296) in 1254 and follows the Benedictine canon.
Live joyfully with you, my lady, as you please; as husband and wife, if it seems good to you; and as brother and sister, if it seems better to you."
Grandguard paused here to see how this tall tale had
effect on the maiden. Only her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Forbes," she whispered. Then turning to the poet, she asked, "Forbes,
What does this mean?"
Grandgouix did not see the connection between his grandiose speech and the question, but was not offended by the opportunity to show off his erudition, so he answered animatedly, "It's a Latin word for sun."
"Sun!" She followed.
"It is the name of a very handsome archer, a god." Grandgueva
added.
"A god!" The Egyptian woman repeated, in a tone that was tinged with a certain longing and passionate
love.
It was at this moment that, just by chance, one of her bracelets came off, and Glenguard
hastily stooped to pick it up. By the time he straightened up, the maiden and the goat were long gone. He
heard the sound of a latch, the small door that led approximately to the neighboring room being unlocked
from the outside.
"She must have at least left a bed?" Our philosopher said.
He looked around the room, there was no furniture to sleep on, only a
quite long wooden box with a still carved lid. When Grandcourt lay down on it, he felt like Mikromegas,
1
stretching out on the top of an Alpine mountain.
① Mikromegas (also known as Little Big Man) is the main character of Voltaire's philosophical novel of the same name. In the novel
Through this Little Big Man, he travels through space and ends up on Earth, where he discovers that human beings are both arrogant and extremely small. The little
giant lying in the Alps is only a metaphor, not the plot of the novel.
"Never mind!" He said as casually as he could. "Put up with it if you can. Still,
That was a bizarre wedding night. What a shame! The jar-smashing marriage has a certain
plain, unadorned old-fashioned style, and I would have been quite happy for miles."