The rages of men like Phoebus are milk-soups, whose ebullition is calmed by a drop of cold water. This simple remark caused the sword which glittered in the captain’s hand to be lowered. Surly monk, phantom, superstitions,—he had forgotten all at that moment. He no longer beheld anything but a man, and an insult. At length the door of the dram-shop opened. This was what he appeared to be waiting for.
And even when her muscles began to spasm, though she trembled violently, she did not leave that spot nor let go of Luz. But Luz continued on, only speaking louder as she let go of Amity’s hand and placed her palm against Amity’s cheek. The living girl placed her own hand atop Luz’s there, pushing her cheek into the cold touch of her love.
Clopin Trouillefou, arrayed in his royal insignia, wore neither one rag more nor one rag less. The sore upon his arm had already disappeared. He held in his hand one of those whips made of thongs of white leather, which police sergeants then used to repress the crowd, and which were calledboullayes. On his head he wore a sort of headgear, bound round and closed at the top. But it was difficult to make out whether it was a child’s cap or a king’s crown, the two things bore so strong a resemblance to each other. But all was over; none of these beauties had been felt nor understood.
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At length, after having passed a final wicket, so loaded with locks that a quarter of an hour was required to open it, they entered a vast and lofty vaulted hall, in the centre of which they could distinguish by the light of the torches, a huge cubic mass of masonry, iron, and wood. It was one of those famous cages of prisoners of state, which were called “the little daughters of the king.” In its walls there were two or three little windows so closely trellised with stout iron bars; that the glass was not visible. The door was a large flat slab of stone, as on tombs; the sort of door which serves for entrance only. The first on which the light fell was a seigneur superbly clad in breeches and jerkin of scarlet striped with silver, and a loose coat with half sleeves of cloth of gold with black figures. This splendid costume, on which the light played, seemed glazed with flame on every fold. The man who wore it had his armorial bearings embroidered on his breast in vivid colors; a chevron accompanied by a deer passant.
It is the kick of the ass at the dying lion. It is the old oak crowning itself, and which, to heap the measure full, is stung, bitten, and gnawed by caterpillars. An architect of good taste amputated it , and considered it sufficient to mask the wound with that large, leaden plaster, which resembles a pot cover. But who has thrown down the two rows of statues?
Cheeky Lovers help said determinedly as she began to pull Luz along with her, double time towards her home. More silence followed, so much that Luz figured Amity intended to actually take her up on the offer of saying nothing. But just when she’d resigned herself to a now somewhat awkward silence for the remainder of their trip, snow began to fall gently from the sky, and as one of the flakes landed upon her skin, Luz gasped and stopped dead in her tracks. “Heh, yeah I guess so.” Luz fell quiet after that, and the two girls walked hand in hand for a spell in the comfortable silence that followed.
Each man vied with the other in thrusting his head over his neighbor’s shoulder. “Of course,” replied Gringoire, a good deal shocked by the question. The tall, light-haired young man retreated a step; but the two curious maidens had no mind to let slip their prize. The hand clapping was deafening, and Jupiter had already withdrawn under his tapestry, while the hall still trembled with acclamations.
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Moreover, he hoped that the affair would not get noised abroad, that his name would hardly be pronounced in it, and that in any case it would not go beyond the courts of the Tournelle. Fashionable society of that day hardly knew the name of the victim who passed by at the corner of the street, and it was the populace at the most who regaled themselves with this coarse fare. An execution was an habitual incident of the public highways, like the braising-pan of the baker or the slaughter-house of the knacker. The executioner was only a sort of butcher of a little deeper dye than the rest. It was not that Phoebus’s wound had not been serious, but it had not been as much so as the archdeacon believed. The physician, to whom the soldiers of the watch had carried him at the first moment, had feared for his life during the space of a week, and had even told him so in Latin.
There is nothing which can be compared with the empire of the archdeacon over the bellringer; with the attachment of the bellringer for the archdeacon. A sign from Claude and the idea of giving him pleasure would have sufficed to make Quasimodo hurl himself headlong from the summit of Notre-Dame. It was a remarkable thing—all that physical strength which had reached in Quasimodo such an extraordinary development, and which was placed by him blindly at the disposition of another. There was in it, no doubt, filial devotion, domestic attachment; there was also the fascination of one spirit by another spirit.
