The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

by Victor Hugo

VICTOR HUGO described his soul as a ‘resounding echo’ and in this he was not merely using a fine metaphor, he was expressing a deep truth.

Hugo pushes the ugliness of Quasimodo to the last limit of belief; he is not merely ugly—he is perfectly so—a gem as it were of unloveliness, and by that perfection he reaches sublimity.

the City, the University and the Town. Yet the 6th of January, 1482,

it, was the fact of its being a double holiday, united since time immemorial—the Epiphany, or Feast of the Kings,

for many honest Paris folks are quite content with gazing at the gazers, and can even regard a wall with intense interest when they think there is something going on behind it.

Therefore there would have been no fire of 1618. The old Palace would be still standing,

Certes, ce fut un triste jeu Quand à Paris Dame Justice, Pour avoir mangé trop d’épice, Se mit tout le palais en feu.

‘I tell you, monsieur, the world’s at an end. Never were there seen such breakings out of the students! It’s the accursed inventions of the age that

are ruining everything—the artillery—the serpentines—the bombards—and, above all, the printing-press, that other German pest! No more manuscripts—no more books! Printing puts an end to bookselling—the end of the world is at hand!’

The multitude had been waiting since the early morning for three things, that is to say, for the hour of noon, for the Flemish embassy, and for the mystery; but only the first of the three had arrived on time.

‘Cappa repleta mero!’ (Head, or hood, full of wine.)

‘What a devil of a man,’ said Robin Poussepain, who was bruised from his fall. ‘He shows himself—and you see he’s a hunchback. He walks—and you see he’s bow-legged. He looks at you—and you see he’s short an eye. You talk to him—and you find he’s deaf. Why, what does this Polyphemus with his tongue?’

A cry of terror proceeded from the multitude. The formidable Quasimodo had leaped down from his seat; and the women turned away their eyes, that they might not see him tear the archdeacon to pieces.

Quasimodo remained upon his knees, bowed down his head, and clasped his hands.

Tempus edax, homo edacior (Time is destructive, man more destructive)—which we would willingly render thus—Time is blind, but man is stupid.

palace is no longer the property of the king, but of the people. Leave it as it is. Twice has our Revolution branded it upon the forehead. On one of its two facades are the bullets of the 10th of August; on the other those of the 29th of July. It is sacred.—Paris, 7th April, 1831.—(Note to the Fifth Edition).

Claude Frollo had, from infancy, been destined by his parents for the ecclesiastical state. He had been taught to read in Latin; he had been trained to cast down his eyes and to speak low. While yet a child, his father had cloistered him in the college of Torchi, in the University. There it was

that he had grown up, on the missal and the lexicon.

Now, in 1482, Quasimodo had grown up, and for several years had been ringer of the bells of Notre-Dame, thanks to his foster-father, Claude Frollo;

We will say, then, that Quasimodo loved the archdeacon as no dog, no horse, no elephant ever loved his master.

The invention of printing is the greatest event in history. It is the mother of revolution.

It seemed as if there was no longer any musician in the steeples. Quasimodo, nevertheless, was still there; what had happened to him, then? was it that the shame and despair of the pillory still rankled in his heart,

‘Hum!’ answered Gringoire, ‘I distrust a mildness which hath pinched nostrils and thin lips.’

‘Bohemian girl,’ continued the president, ‘you have confessed all your acts of sorcery, prostitution and assassination upon Phœbus de Chateaupers?’

Her heart was wrung. She was heard sobbing amid the darkness. ‘Whatever you will,’ answered she feebly; ‘but kill me quickly.’

‘Satan plays so large a part in this affair that here he is present at our councils, and making mock of their majesty. Behold him!’

rather philosophy and independence in rags. I would rather be the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.’

THAT same night Quasimodo slept not. He had just gone his last round through the church. He had not noticed, at the moment when he was closing the doors, that the archdeacon had passed near him and had displayed

‘She is clad in bright array, The city of Cambray; Marafin plundered her one day.…’

Quicker than a flash of lightning the recluse had compared the two shoes, read the inscription on the parchment, and thrust close to the window bars her face, beaming with heavenly joy, crying: ‘My daughter! my daughter!’

‘My mother!’ answered the gypsy-girl.