The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

by Victor Hugo

He did not regret, he did not repent; all that he had done he was ready to do again; he preferred to behold her in the hands of the executioner rather than in the arms of the captain.

All this active, organized, tranquil life, recurring around him under a thousand forms, hurt him.

Claude, in the state of hallucination in which he found himself, believed that he saw, that he saw with his actual eyes, the bell tower of hell; the thousand lights scattered over the whole height of the terrible tower seemed to him so many porches of the immense interior furnace; the voices and noises which escaped from it seemed so many shrieks, so many death groans.

He felt so many monstrous vapors pass and discharge themselves in his brain, that it seemed to him that his head had become one of the chimneys of hell.

He slowly climbed the stairs of the towers, filled with a secret fright which must have been communicated to the rare passers-by in the Place du Parvis by the mysterious light of his lamp, mounting so late from loophole to loophole of the bell tower.

A loophole, in this context, is a arrow slit.

“A spirit passed before my face, and I heard a small voice, and the hair of my flesh stood up.”

There were in every suburb almost as many places of asylum as gallows. It was the abuse of impunity by the side of the abuse of punishment; two bad things which strove to correct each other. The palaces of the king, the hôtels of the princes, and especially churches, possessed the right of asylum.

“No, no,” said he; “the owl enters not the nest of the lark.”

He drew from his pocket a little metal whistle. “Here,” said he, “when you have need of me, when you wish me to come, when you will not feel too much horror at the sight of me, use this whistle. I can hear this sound.” He laid the whistle on the floor and fled.

Excess of grief, like excess of joy, is a violent thing which lasts but a short time. The heart of man cannot remain long in one extremity.

Love is like a tree; it sprouts forth of itself, sends its roots out deeply through our whole being, and often continues to flourish greenly over a heart in ruins. And the inexplicable point about it is that the more blind is this passion, the more tenacious it is. It is never more solid than when it has no reason in it.

I don't believe this. I believe this results from people being trapped in the sunk cost fallacy where they can't bear to believe they have been such a fool. There is no reason for La Esmeralda to love Phoebus. Yes, she had a childish fantasy about a knight and shining armor type of officer to love her. Phoebus, however, was a cad who just wanted in her pants and refused to consider marrying her. Given that Phoebus seems to have abandoned her, he hasn't come to see her and didn't argue for her at the trial, she should be able to recognize that her fantasy of Phoebus and the reality of the man are at odds with each other. That she can't either means she cannot bear to admit her follow or, more likely, the Author needs her to be stuck on Phoebus for his expectation of the plot to work.

An unreasonable explanation, but she contented herself with it, because she needed to believe that Phœbus still loved her, and loved her alone.

She often reproached herself for not feeling a gratitude which should close her eyes, but decidedly, she could not accustom herself to the poor bellringer. He was too ugly.

“My misfortune is that I still resemble a man too much. I should like to be wholly a beast like that goat.”

However, the officer did not hear the unhappy girl calling him; he was too far away. But the poor deaf man heard.

The gypsy paid no heed to him. He said in a low voice as he gnashed his teeth,— “Damnation! That is what one should be like! ’Tis only necessary to be handsome on the outside!”

He thought of the miserable portion which Providence had allotted to him: that woman, and the pleasure of love, would pass forever before his eyes, and that he should never do anything but behold the felicity of others.

One morning, on awaking, she saw on her window two vases filled with flowers. One was a very beautiful and very brilliant but cracked vase of glass. It had allowed the water with which it had been filled to escape, and the flowers which it contained were withered. The other was an earthenware pot, coarse and common, but which had preserved all its water, and its flowers remained fresh and crimson. I know not whether it was done intentionally, but La Esmeralda took the faded nosegay and wore it all day long upon her breast.

The human heart (Dom Claude had meditated upon these matters) can contain only a certain quantity of despair. When the sponge is saturated, the sea may pass over it without causing a single drop more to enter it.

“One might condone the captain, but this one!”

Ironically, La Esmeralda doesn't like to look at Quasimodo and hasn't noticed or cared that he had made himself scarce.

“On my honor, yes! First I loved women, then animals. Now I love stones. They are quite as amusing as women and animals, and less treacherous.”

“Well, what has become of her? What have you done with her?”

This doesn't make sense from the Deacon's perspective. He knows where La Esmeralda is. He intends to ask Pierre for help.

“And who the devil,” resumed the poet, “has amused himself with soliciting a decree of reintegration?

“There are Satans in this world,” remarked the Archdeacon. From context, I think the Archdeacon petitioned Parliament. I suspect he calls himself Satan.

“There are Satans in this world,” remarked the Archdeacon.

Our marriage was a real forismaritagium. I stayed outside. But one might obtain a respite, all the same.”

’Tis not written that because one is of small account one should take fright at a great enterprise. Bitou carried a great bull on his shoulders; the water-wagtails, the warblers, and the buntings traverse the ocean.”

Oh! how ugly and crabbed behind is debauch which is so charming in front!

“Go to the devil!” said Dom Claude; “here is the last money which you will get from me!” At the same time, the priest flung Jehan a purse, which gave the scholar a big bump on the forehead, and with which Jehan retreated, both vexed and content, like a dog who had been stoned with marrow bones.

’Tis the demon Sidragasum who hath the power to make wenches dance stark naked.” “By the mass!” interrupted Jehan, “I should like to be the demon Sidragasum.”

“I love the fire, my dear lord. Not for the trivial reason that fire warms the feet or cooks our soup, but because it has sparks. Sometimes I pass whole hours in watching the sparks. I discover a thousand things in those stars which are sprinkled over the black background of the hearth. Those stars are also worlds.”

If your church is sacred, so is our sister; if our sister is not sacred, neither is your church.

They serve no purpose, as they stand thus useless round the king; they produce upon me the effect of the four Evangelists who surround the face of the big clock of the palace, and which Philippe Brille has just set in order afresh. They are gilt, but they do not indicate the hour; and the hands can get on without them.”

Clemency is a fine, royal virtue, which turns aside the currents of wrath.

In context, the quote is ironic be ause the King does not display any interest in clemency nor justice.

“Instantly, sire! there will be time to sack the bailiwick a score of times, to violate the seignory, to hang the bailiff. For God’s sake, sire! send before to-morrow morning.” The king looked him full in the face. “I have told you to-morrow morning.” It was one of those looks to which one does not reply.

“Gossip Tristan, here is a man for you.”

Gossip as a title apparently began as a godparent and became generalized to a good friend. It doesn't have the same connotations as our common gossiping or a gossip as we use the term in modern English.

Tristan l’Hermite advanced and pointed to Gringoire,— “Sire, can this one be hanged also?” This was the first word that he had uttered. “Phew!” replied the king, “I see no objection.” “I see a great many!” said Gringoire.

This will be mentioned later in the boat.

Sire! will your majesty deign to hear me. Sire! break not in thunder over so small a thing as myself. God’s great lightning doth not bombard a lettuce.

Every one knoweth that great wealth is not to be drawn from literature, and that those who are best posted in good books do not always have a great fire in winter.

Clemency beareth the torch before all the other virtues.

Compassion, which is the same thing as clemency, causeth the love of subjects, which is the most powerful bodyguard to a prince.

So saying, the unhappy Gringoire kissed the king’s slippers, and Guillaume Rym said to Coppenole in a low tone: “He doth well to drag himself on the earth. Kings are like the Jupiter of Crete, they have ears only in their feet.”

But he uttered not a word, and this silence tortured Gringoire. At last the king looked at him. “Here is a terrible bawler!” said, he. Then, turning to Tristan l’Hermite, “Bah! let him go!”

“At liberty!” growled Tristan. “Doth not your majesty wish to have him detained a little while in a cage?” “Gossip,” retorted Louis XI, “think you that ’tis for birds of this feather that we cause to be made cages at three hundred and sixty-seven livres, eight sous, three deniers apiece?

“Look, Coppenole,” said Rym, in a low voice. “Behold him between Coictier and Tristan. They are his whole court. A physician for himself, a headsman for others.”

“Pasque Dieu!”

Here's a breakdown of the pronunciation of "Pasque Dieu": * Pasque: pronounced as "pah-skuh" with the "u" sounding like the "u" in "put." * Dieu: pronounced as "dyuh" with a silent "e" at the end. The "s" in "Pasque" is not pronounced like the English "s" but rather like a soft "z" sound.

“Hum! I have had enough of that coughing king! I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, and he was less malignant than Louis X when ailing.” “Master Jacques,” replied Rym, “’tis because wine renders kings less cruel than does barley water.”

“Oh,” retorted Gringoire, “’tis no fault of mine, but of the watch and the king. I have just had a narrow escape. I always just miss being hung. ’Tis my predestination.”

The battle was frightful. There was a dog’s tooth for wolf’s flesh, as P. Mathieu says.

The king’s cavaliers, in whose midst Phœbus de Châteaupers bore himself valiantly, gave no quarter, and the slash of the sword disposed of those who escaped the thrust of the lance.

For even if one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one is always of the religion of the temple which is nearest at hand.