2, for thousands of years, the Seine River from her side quietly winding however, day and night, washing the soot of history; and she also forehead covered with vicissitudes, read the world of change, not moving.
3, that time in front of Notre Dame open-air cafe, where he drank work coffee, strong taste, has been sitting until the end of the sunset, see the color of the evening sun in the white stone walls of Notre Dame evenly painted. I imagine that Hugo, with what kind of unseen state of mind, wandering day and night in Notre Dame under the huge shadow of the front wall, listening to the bell tower came from the sound of the bell, gently caressing that a fast by the years carved on the destiny of the stone, the mysterious text on the bell tower could not help but jump into the mind, his heart slowly rose a sublime and painful feelings, and began to conceptualize a sweeping tale.
4, he thought left and right, who is this suffering soul, must be the brand of this sin, or the brand of this disaster in the forehead of this ancient church can not be, otherwise it refused to leave the earth. After the visit, the wall was whitewashed and scraped, and the mysterious handwriting inscribed on the shadowy bell tower of Notre Dame died out, and is now gone, and the unknown destiny, which its tearful words summarize, has also vanished. The person who wrote the words on the wall, along with the words, have disappeared from the earth.
5, for many who have not been to Paris, she is more often than not a book title and a painful story. Her name is closely linked to Hugo, the great 19th century French poet, novelist, literary critic and political commentator, the innovator of poetry, the creator of the Romantic theater, with his own wisdom and heart and soul, for a piece of lifeless, cold stone injected with blood and soul, the achievement of her rich and wonderful. (m.taiks.com) They seem like a pair of lovers.
6, twilight spring weather, flooded with some lazy, especially in such a night, the lights are bleak, you and a lamp are not talking, choose to be silent - such an atmosphere more or less let a person a little sickly feeling. What would you think if at that moment a bell suddenly rang in your ears, deep and mellow, meticulously peeling back the night to come and knock at your soul? I imagine in the darkness of the night, plucking away the fog with trembling fingers, and arriving in fifteenth-century Paris through the thick night. Standing before me is a huge Gothic building with tall towers piercing into the firmament. Crawling at the feet of the giant, I was but a humble ant. She is the world-famous Notre Dame de Paris, a huge symphony of magnificent stone.
7, those stones must still remember to this day, when his deep and compassionate sighs, blazing fingers as if a burning flame, perceived the course of his painful groping for the heart of humanity.
8, Gravois Square, the beautiful and kind Gypsy wandering girl Esmeralda dancing, followed by the beautiful and clever Gary; bell ringer Quasimodo ugly and deformed body jumping back and forth in the belfry, emitting a monstrous snarl; the priest's somber shadow ghost-like, thick muggy, lending a black coat, more than flickering within the walls of the courtyard at the top of the belfry.
9. At the top of this bell tower, far from the world and close to heaven, is the sublime and holy world that belongs to Quasimodo, as well as the world of loneliness and despair. That day, he looked out from here, the dense houses of Paris were cut by the streets and alleys. The cool dawn wind blew over, and it seemed that even the clock tower was shivering.
10, Notre Dame is the top of two bell towers, the south bell tower of the huge bell weighing thirteen tons. Quasimodo used to be the bell player here. Those bells were the only light that penetrated the soul of this deaf and one-eyed man. He loved them, he talked to them, he understood them, he enjoyed his unique pleasure. He makes this mysterious church flow with a special kind of vitality.
11, it turns out that in a wide open space between the crowd and the fireworks, there is a young girl dancing.
Whether the maiden was a human being, a nymph, or an angel, Grandcourt, in spite of being a skeptical philosopher and a satirical poet, could not decide at first sight, for the dazzling spectacle mesmerized him.
She was not tall, but her slim figure was erect and appeared slender, so that it seemed to him as if she were tall. Her complexion was brownish-brown, but one could guess that it probably looked in the daytime with a beautiful golden sheen like that of Andalusian and Roman girls. Her small, slender feet, also Andalusian in appearance, looked snug and self-possessed throughout in elegant shoes. She danced, twirled, and swirled on an old Persian rug that was casually padded at her feet; and each time she twirled, her radiant face flashed past you, and those big, dark eyes threw lightning bolts at you.
Everyone around her stared fixedly, mouths wide open. It was true, she danced like this, with two round, clean arms raised above her head, and a Basque tambourine buzzing; her head was slender, soft, and agile as a hornet's; she was dressed in a golden corset, flat and unruffled, with a colorful, fluffy, bulging robe; her shoulders were bare, and her skirts lifted up from time to time to show her graceful legs; her hair was black, and her eyes were like flames; in a word, she was truly a deftly crafted beauty.
"Truly, this is an elf , a mountain nymph, a goddess, a wine priestess of Mount Menalus ." Glenguard thought to himself.