BOOK SIXTH.
CHAPTER 4. A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATER.
(continued)
"Rider on a broom handle!" cried another.
"What a fine tragic grimace," howled a third, "and who
would make him Pope of the Fools if to-day were yesterday?"
"'Tis well," struck in an old woman. "This is the grimace
of the pillory. When shall we have that of the gibbet?"
"When will you be coiffed with your big bell a hundred feet
under ground, cursed bellringer?"
"But 'tis the devil who rings the Angelus!"
"Oh! the deaf man! the one-eyed creature! the hunch-
back! the monster!"
"A face to make a woman miscarry better than all the
drugs and medicines!"
And the two scholars, Jehan du Moulin, and Robin Poussepain,
sang at the top of their lungs, the ancient refrain,--
"Une hart
Pour le pendard!
Un fagot
Pour le magot!"*
* A rope for the gallows bird! A fagot for the ape.
A thousand other insults rained down upon him, and hoots
and imprecations, and laughter, and now and then, stones.
Quasimodo was deaf but his sight was clear, and the public
fury was no less energetically depicted on their visages than
in their words. Moreover, the blows from the stones explained
the bursts of laughter.
At first he held his ground. But little by little that
patience which had borne up under the lash of the torturer,
yielded and gave way before all these stings of insects. The
bull of the Asturias who has been but little moved by the
attacks of the picador grows irritated with the dogs and
banderilleras.
He first cast around a slow glance of hatred upon the crowd.
But bound as he was, his glance was powerless to drive away
those flies which were stinging his wound. Then he moved in
his bonds, and his furious exertions made the ancient wheel of
the pillory shriek on its axle. All this only increased the
derision and hooting.
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