DELIRIUM.

Claude Frollo was no longer in Notre-Dame when his adopted son so abruptly cut the

fatal web in which the archdeacon and the gypsy were entangled.

On returning to the sacristy he had torn off his alb, cope, and stole, had flung all

into the hands of the stupefied beadle, had made his escape through the private door of

the cloister, had ordered a boatman of the

Terrain to transport him to the left bank of the Seine, and had plunged into the

hilly streets of the University, not knowing whither he was going, encountering

at every step groups of men and women who

were hurrying joyously towards the Pont Saint-Michel, in the hope of still arriving

in time to see the witch hung there,--pale, wild, more troubled, more blind and more

fierce than a night bird let loose and

pursued by a troop of children in broad daylight.

He no longer knew where he was, what he thought, or whether he were dreaming.

He went forward, walking, running, taking any street at haphazard, making no choice,

only urged ever onward away from the Greve, the horrible Greve, which he felt

confusedly, to be behind him.

In this manner he skirted Mount Sainte- Genevieve, and finally emerged from the

town by the Porte Saint-Victor.

He continued his flight as long as he could see, when he turned round, the turreted

enclosure of the University, and the rare houses of the suburb; but, when, at length,

a rise of ground had completely concealed

from him that odious Paris, when he could believe himself to be a hundred leagues

distant from it, in the fields, in the desert, he halted, and it seemed to him

that he breathed more freely.

Then frightful ideas thronged his mind. Once more he could see clearly into his

soul, and he shuddered. He thought of that unhappy girl who had

destroyed him, and whom he had destroyed.

He cast a haggard eye over the double, tortuous way which fate had caused their

two destinies to pursue up to their point of intersection, where it had dashed them

against each other without mercy.

He meditated on the folly of eternal vows, on the vanity of chastity, of science, of

religion, of virtue, on the uselessness of God.

He plunged to his heart's content in evil thoughts, and in proportion as he sank

deeper, he felt a Satanic laugh burst forth within him.

And as he thus sifted his soul to the bottom, when he perceived how large a space

nature had prepared there for the passions, he sneered still more bitterly.

He stirred up in the depths of his heart all his hatred, all his malevolence; and,

with the cold glance of a physician who examines a patient, he recognized the fact

that this malevolence was nothing but

vitiated love; that love, that source of every virtue in man, turned to horrible

things in the heart of a priest, and that a man constituted like himself, in making

himself a priest, made himself a demon.

Then he laughed frightfully, and suddenly became pale again, when he considered the

most sinister side of his fatal passion, of that corrosive, venomous malignant,

implacable love, which had ended only in

the gibbet for one of them and in hell for the other; condemnation for her, damnation

for him.

And then his laughter came again, when he reflected that Phoebus was alive; that

after all, the captain lived, was gay and happy, had handsomer doublets than ever,

and a new mistress whom he was conducting to see the old one hanged.

His sneer redoubled its bitterness when he reflected that out of the living beings

whose death he had desired, the gypsy, the only creature whom he did not hate, was the

only one who had not escaped him.

Then from the captain, his thought passed to the people, and there came to him a

jealousy of an unprecedented sort.

He reflected that the people also, the entire populace, had had before their eyes

the woman whom he loved exposed almost naked.

He writhed his arms with agony as he thought that the woman whose form, caught

by him alone in the darkness would have been supreme happiness, had been delivered

up in broad daylight at full noonday, to a

whole people, clad as for a night of voluptuousness.

He wept with rage over all these mysteries of love, profaned, soiled, laid bare,

withered forever.

He wept with rage as he pictured to himself how many impure looks had been gratified at

the sight of that badly fastened shift, and that this beautiful girl, this virgin lily,

this cup of modesty and delight, to which

he would have dared to place his lips only trembling, had just been transformed into a

sort of public bowl, whereat the vilest populace of Paris, thieves, beggars,

lackeys, had come to quaff in common an audacious, impure, and depraved pleasure.

And when he sought to picture to himself the happiness which he might have found

upon earth, if she had not been a gypsy, and if he had not been a priest, if Phoebus

had not existed and if she had loved him;

when he pictured to himself that a life of serenity and love would have been possible

to him also, even to him; that there were at that very moment, here and there upon

the earth, happy couples spending the hours

in sweet converse beneath orange trees, on the banks of brooks, in the presence of a

setting sun, of a starry night; and that if God had so willed, he might have formed

with her one of those blessed couples,--his heart melted in tenderness and despair.

Oh! she! still she!

It was this fixed idea which returned incessantly, which tortured him, which ate

into his brain, and rent his vitals.

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.

But he suffered; he suffered so that at intervals he tore out handfuls of his hair

to see whether it were not turning white.

Among other moments there came one, when it occurred to him that it was perhaps the

very minute when the hideous chain which he had seen that morning, was pressing its

iron noose closer about that frail and graceful neck.

This thought caused the perspiration to start from every pore.

There was another moment when, while laughing diabolically at himself, he

represented to himself la Esmeralda as he had seen her on that first day, lively,

careless, joyous, gayly attired, dancing,

winged, harmonious, and la Esmeralda of the last day, in her scanty shift, with a rope

about her neck, mounting slowly with her bare feet, the angular ladder of the

gallows; he figured to himself this double

picture in such a manner that he gave vent to a terrible cry.

While this hurricane of despair overturned, broke, tore up, bent, uprooted everything

in his soul, he gazed at nature around him.

At his feet, some chickens were searching the thickets and pecking, enamelled beetles

ran about in the sun; overhead, some groups of dappled gray clouds were floating across

the blue sky; on the horizon, the spire of

the Abbey Saint-Victor pierced the ridge of the hill with its slate obelisk; and the

miller of the Copeaue hillock was whistling as he watched the laborious wings of his

mill turning.

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

forms, hurt him. He resumed his flight.

He sped thus across the fields until evening.

This flight from nature, life, himself, man, God, everything, lasted all day long.

Sometimes he flung himself face downward on the earth, and tore up the young blades of

wheat with his nails.

Sometimes he halted in the deserted street of a village, and his thoughts were so

intolerable that he grasped his head in both hands and tried to tear it from his

shoulders in order to dash it upon the pavement.

Towards the hour of sunset, he examined himself again, and found himself nearly

mad.

The tempest which had raged within him ever since the instant when he had lost the hope

and the will to save the gypsy,--that tempest had not left in his conscience a

single healthy idea, a single thought which maintained its upright position.

His reason lay there almost entirely destroyed.

There remained but two distinct images in his mind, la Esmeralda and the gallows; all

the rest was blank.

Those two images united, presented to him a frightful group; and the more he

concentrated what attention and thought was left to him, the more he beheld them grow,

in accordance with a fantastic progression,

the one in grace, in charm, in beauty, in light, the other in deformity and horror;

so that at last la Esmeralda appeared to him like a star, the gibbet like an

enormous, fleshless arm.

One remarkable fact is, that during the whole of this torture, the idea of dying

did not seriously occur to him. The wretch was made so.

He clung to life.

Perhaps he really saw hell beyond it. Meanwhile, the day continued to decline.

The living being which still existed in him reflected vaguely on retracing its steps.

He believed himself to be far away from Paris; on taking his bearings, he perceived

that he had only circled the enclosure of the University.

The spire of Saint-Sulpice, and the three lofty needles of Saint Germain-des-Pres,

rose above the horizon on his right. He turned his steps in that direction.

When he heard the brisk challenge of the men-at-arms of the abbey, around the

crenelated, circumscribing wall of Saint- Germain, he turned aside, took a path which

presented itself between the abbey and the

lazar-house of the bourg, and at the expiration of a few minutes found himself

on the verge of the Pre-aux-Clercs.

This meadow was celebrated by reason of the brawls which went on there night and day;

it was the hydra of the poor monks of Saint-Germain: quod mouachis Sancti-

Germaini pratensis hydra fuit, clericis

nova semper dissidiorum capita suscitantibus.

The archdeacon was afraid of meeting some one there; he feared every human

countenance; he had just avoided the University and the Bourg Saint-Germain; he

wished to re-enter the streets as late as possible.

He skirted the Pre-aux-Clercs, took the deserted path which separated it from the

Dieu-Neuf, and at last reached the water's edge.

There Dom Claude found a boatman, who, for a few farthings in Parisian coinage, rowed

him up the Seine as far as the point of the city, and landed him on that tongue of

abandoned land where the reader has already

beheld Gringoire dreaming, and which was prolonged beyond the king's gardens,

parallel to the Ile du Passeur-aux-Vaches.

The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of the water had, in some sort,

quieted the unhappy Claude.

When the boatman had taken his departure, he remained standing stupidly on the

strand, staring straight before him and perceiving objects only through magnifying

oscillations which rendered everything a sort of phantasmagoria to him.

The fatigue of a great grief not infrequently produces this effect on the

mind.

The sun had set behind the lofty Tour-de- Nesle.

It was the twilight hour. The sky was white, the water of the river

was white.

Between these two white expanses, the left bank of the Seine, on which his eyes were

fixed, projected its gloomy mass and, rendered ever thinner and thinner by

perspective, it plunged into the gloom of the horizon like a black spire.

It was loaded with houses, of which only the obscure outline could be distinguished,

sharply brought out in shadows against the light background of the sky and the water.

Here and there windows began to gleam, like the holes in a brazier.

That immense black obelisk thus isolated between the two white expanses of the sky

and the river, which was very broad at this point, produced upon Dom Claude a singular

effect, comparable to that which would be

experienced by a man who, reclining on his back at the foot of the tower of Strasburg,

should gaze at the enormous spire plunging into the shadows of the twilight above his

head.

Only, in this case, it was Claude who was erect and the obelisk which was lying down;

but, as the river, reflecting the sky, prolonged the abyss below him, the immense

promontory seemed to be as boldly launched

into space as any cathedral spire; and the impression was the same.

This impression had even one stronger and more profound point about it, that it was

indeed the tower of Strasbourg, but the tower of Strasbourg two leagues in height;

something unheard of, gigantic,

immeasurable; an edifice such as no human eye has ever seen; a tower of Babel.

The chimneys of the houses, the battlements of the walls, the faceted gables of the

roofs, the spire of the Augustines, the tower of Nesle, all these projections which

broke the profile of the colossal obelisk

added to the illusion by displaying in eccentric fashion to the eye the

indentations of a luxuriant and fantastic sculpture.

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;