Gringoire set out to follow the gypsy at all hazards. He had seen her, accompanied by her goat, take to the Rue de la Coutellerie; he took the Rue de la Coutellerie.
"Why not?" he said to himself.
Gringoire, a practical philosopher of the streets of Paris, had noticed that nothing is more propitious to revery than following a pretty woman without knowing whither she is going. There was in this voluntary abdication of his freewill, in this fancy submitting itself to another fancy, which suspects it not, a mixture of fantastic independence and blind obedience, something indescribable, intermediate between slavery and liberty, which pleased Gringoire,--a spirit essentially compound, undecided, and complex, holding the extremities of all extremes, incessantly suspended between all human propensities, and neutralizing one by the other. He was fond of comparing himself to Mahomet's coffin, attracted in two different directions by two loadstones, and hesitating eternally between the heights and the depths, between the vault and the pavement, between fall and ascent, between zenith and nadir.
If Gringoire had lived in our day, what a fine middle course he would hold between classicism and romanticism!
But he was not sufficiently primitive to live three hundred years, and 'tis a pity. His absence is a void which is but too sensibly felt to-day.
Moreover, for the purpose of thus following passers-by (and especially female passers-by) in the streets, which Gringoire was fond of doing, there is no better disposition than ignorance of where one is going to sleep.
So he walked along, very thoughtfully, behind the young girl, who hastened her pace and made her goat trot as she saw the bourgeois returning home and the taverns--the only shops which had been open that day--closing.
"After all," he half thought to himself, "she must lodge somewhere; gypsies have kindly hearts. Who knows?--"
And in the points of suspense which he placed after this reticence in his mind, there lay I know not what flattering ideas.
Meanwhile, from time to time, as he passed the last groups of bourgeois closing their doors, he caught some scraps of their conversation, which broke the thread of his pleasant hypotheses.
Now it was two old men accosting each other.
"Do you know that it is cold, Master Thibaut Fernicle?" (Gringoire had been aware of this since the beginning of the winter.)
"Yes, indeed, Master Boniface Disome! Are we going to have a winter such as we had three years ago, in '80, when wood cost eight sous the measure?"
"Bah! that's nothing, Master Thibaut, compared with the winter of 1407, when it froze from St. Martin's Day until Candlemas! and so cold that the pen of the registrar of the parliament froze every three words, in the Grand Chamber! which interrupted the registration of justice."
Further on there were two female neighbors at their windows, holding candles, which the fog caused to sputter.
"Has your husband told you about the mishap, Mademoiselle la Boudraque?"
"No. What is it, Mademoiselle Turquant?"
"The horse of M. Gilles Godin, the notary at the Chatelet, took fright at the Flemings and their procession, and overturned Master Philippe Avrillot, lay monk of the Célestins."
"Really?"
"Actually."
"A bourgeois horse! 'tis rather too much! If it had been a cavalry horse, well and good!"
And the windows were closed. But Gringoire had lost the thread of his ideas, nevertheless.
Fortunately, he speedily found it again, and he knotted it together without difficulty, thanks to the gypsy, thanks to Djali, who still walked in front of him; two fine, delicate, and charming creatures, whose tiny feet, beautiful forms, and graceful manners he was engaged in admiring, almost confusing them in his contemplation; believing them to be both young girls, from their intelligence and good friendship; regarding them both as goats,--so far as the lightness, agility, and dexterity of their walk were concerned.
But the streets were becoming blacker and more deserted every moment. The curfew had sounded long ago, and it was only at rare intervals now that they encountered a passer-by in the street, or a light in the windows. Gringoire had become involved, in his pursuit of the gypsy, in that inextricable labyrinth of alleys, squares, and closed courts which surround the ancient sepulchre of the Saints-Innocents, and which resembles a ball of thread tangled by a cat. "Here are streets which possess but little logic!" said Gringoire, lost in the thousands of circuits which returned upon themselves incessantly, but where the young girl pursued a road which seemed familiar to her, without hesitation and with a step which became ever more rapid. As for him, he would have been utterly ignorant of his situation had he not espied, in passing, at the turn of a street, the octagonal mass of the pillory of the fish markets, the open-work summit of which threw its black, fretted outlines clearly upon a window which was still lighted in the Rue Verdelet.
The young girl's attention had been attracted to him for the last few moments; she had repeatedly turned her head towards him with uneasiness; she had even once come to a standstill, and taking advantage of a ray of light which escaped from a half-open bakery to survey him intently, from head to foot, then, having cast this glance, Gringoire had seen her make that little pout which he had already noticed, after which she passed on.
This little pout had furnished Gringoire with food for thought. There was certainly both disdain and mockery in that graceful grimace. So he dropped his head, began to count the paving-stones, and to follow the young girl at a little greater distance, when, at the turn of a street, which had caused him to lose sight of her, he heard her utter a piercing cry.
He hastened his steps.
The street was full of shadows. Nevertheless, a twist of tow soaked in oil, which burned in a cage at the feet of the Holy Virgin at the street corner, permitted Gringoire to make out the gypsy struggling in the arms of two men, who were endeavoring to stifle her cries. The poor little goat, in great alarm, lowered his horns and bleated.
"Help! gentlemen of the watch!" shouted Gringoire, and advanced bravely. One of the men who held the young girl turned towards him. It was the formidable visage of Quasimodo.
Gringoire did not take to flight, but neither did he advance another step.
Quasimodo came up to him, tossed him four paces away on the pavement with a backward turn of the hand, and plunged rapidly into the gloom, bearing the young girl folded across one arm like a silken scarf. His companion followed him, and the poor goat ran after them all, bleating plaintively.
"Murder! murder!" shrieked the unhappy gypsy.
"Halt, rascals, and yield me that wench!" suddenly shouted in a voice of thunder, a cavalier who appeared suddenly from a neighboring square.
It was a captain of the king's archers, armed from head to foot, with his sword in his hand.
He tore the gypsy from the arms of the dazed Quasimodo, threw her across his saddle, and at the moment when the terrible hunchback, recovering from his surprise, rushed upon him to regain his prey, fifteen or sixteen archers, who followed their captain closely, made their appearance, with their two-edged swords in their fists. It was a squad of the king's police, which was making the rounds, by order of Messire Robert d'Estouteville, guard of the provostship of Paris.
Quasimodo was surrounded, seized, garroted; he roared, he foamed at the mouth, he bit; and had it been broad daylight, there is no doubt that his face alone, rendered more hideous by wrath, would have put the entire squad to flight. But by night he was deprived of his most formidable weapon, his ugliness.
His companion had disappeared during the struggle.
The gypsy gracefully raised herself upright upon the officer's saddle, placed both hands upon the young man's shoulders, and gazed fixedly at him for several seconds, as though enchanted with his good looks and with the aid which he had just rendered her. Then breaking silence first, she said to him, making her sweet voice still sweeter than usual,--
"What is your name, monsieur le gendarme?"
"Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, at your service, my beauty!" replied the officer, drawing himself up.
"Thanks," said she.
And while Captain Phoebus was turning up his moustache in Burgundian fashion, she slipped from the horse, like an arrow falling to earth, and fled.
A flash of lightning would have vanished less quickly.
"Nombrill of the Pope!" said the captain, causing Quasimodo's straps to be drawn tighter, "I should have preferred to keep the wench."
"What would you have, captain?" said one gendarme. "The warbler has fled, and the bat remains."
“干吗不？”他自言自语道。
熟悉巴黎街道的哲学家甘果瓦，觉得没有什么事比跟踪一位你不知她要往哪里去的美女更有助于幻想的了。在他对自己的意愿的甘心放弃之中，在那屈从的怪念头里面，无疑有着奇特的独立性与盲目的顺从性的混合物——介于自由和不自由之间的某种符合甘果瓦爱好的东西。他的思想基本上是一种混合体，优柔寡断而且比较复杂，他知道怎样来控制过火的行为，总是在各种人的癖好之间徘徊，使它们互相抵销。他喜欢把自己比做穆罕默德的坟墓，被两块方向相反的磁石吸引着，永远动摇于顶峰和底层之间，拱顶和路面之间，上升和下沉之间，最高和最低之间。
假若甘果瓦出生在我们这个时代，他会在古典作家和浪漫作家之间占据何等不偏不倚的中间地位！但他还没有强壮到能活上三百岁，这很可惜。他的去世使我们今天感到分外空虚。
何况，对于甘果瓦来说，要他心甘情愿地在大街上这样跟踪一个路人（尤其是一个女性），而他自己又不知要到何处去投宿，没有比现在更合适的了。
那个少女看见市民们回来，关上了酒吧间（那天只有这类店铺开门），她就加快了脚步并且让她那漂亮的小山羊小步跑着。甘果瓦若有所思地跟在她身后。
“到底，”甘果瓦大概是这样想的，“她总得有个地方住宿呀。波希米亚妇女都是好心肠的。谁知道……? ”
在他心里，这句故意没说完的话不知包含着什么动人的意思。
当他从那些最后关店门的商人面前走过时，偶尔听到了几句谈话的片断，把他的愉快的遐想链条弄断了。
例如两个老年人的这种攀谈：“蒂波·菲尼克尔老板，你知道天气很冷吗？”
（刚一入冬甘果瓦对这一点就很清楚了。）
“是呀——嗯，波尼法斯·迭若姆老板！我们会不会象三年以前，象八○年那样，每捆柴卖到八个索尔呢？”
“呸，那算不了什么，蒂波老板。大约在一四○七年的冬天，从圣马丁节一直到圣烛节都结着冰呢！天气冷得吓人，大理院的书记们每写三个字，笔尖上的墨水就都结冰啦！它使得审判记录都中断了。”
再远一点，有几个邻家妇女拿着蜡烛站在窗口。雾气使她们的蜡烛爆出响声。
“布德拉格小姐，你的丈夫有没有把那件倒霉事讲给你听？”
“没有。你指的是什么事呀，居尔刚小姐？”
“沙特雷法庭公证人吉尔·戈丹先生的马被弗朗德勒使臣们和随员们惊了，它就把塞勒斯丹修会的修士菲立波·阿弗里约踢倒啦。”
“真的吗？”
“没有更真的了。”
“一个市民的马，那还不打紧。要是武士的马呀，那可就不妙了！”
那些窗子重新关上了。但是甘果瓦因此就失掉了思想的线索。
幸好他重新找到了它，而且不费力地把它接上了，那得感谢波希米亚姑娘和加里一直在他的前面赶路。由于崇拜着那两个美妙奇巧的生物的小小的脚，优美的形象，可爱的姿势，使他在沉思默想中几乎分不清她们谁是谁了。
她们的聪明和友爱使他把她俩都当成了少女，而她们轻捷灵巧的脚步又使他以为她俩都是母山羊。
那些街道愈走愈荒僻，灭灯钟已经响过好久了，路上只是偶尔碰到一个行人，窗户里只是偶尔透出一点亮光。甘果瓦跟着波希米亚姑娘走进了围绕着古代的“圣婴公墓”的错综纷歧的狭巷、弄堂和十字路，那些街巷就象是一堆被猫抓乱了的线。“这些街上是难得有旅店的呀！”甘果瓦说。他在那不断出现在他面前的迂回曲折里迷失了，但那个姑娘却好象走上了一条很熟悉的路，毫不犹豫地加快了脚步。至于他呢，他完全不明白自己在什么地方，要不是在拐角处看见了八角形菜市场那里的刑台，这座刑台的黑黝黝的齿形顶部清楚地突出在维尔代雷街的一个亮着灯的窗上。
他引起那个少女的注意已经好一会了。她好几次不安地朝他回过头来，她甚至还停了一会脚步，借着一个面包房半开的窗户里透出的一线亮光，把他从头到脚仔细打量了一番，转瞬间，甘果瓦看见她象他上次看见过的那样，略为扁了一下嘴，就走开去了。
这个微微的扁嘴使甘果瓦陷入了深思，这种可爱的模样似乎表现着某种轻蔑或嘲笑的意思。他低着头慢慢地走，好象在数那些铺路的石板，在离那姑娘几步远之外，他跟着她转过了一条街。当那姑娘转过拐角看不见了的时候，他忽然听到一声尖锐的叫喊。
他赶紧加快了脚步。
街上是一片昏暗。借了街角圣母像的铁栏里燃着的一支流着烛油的蜡烛的亮光，甘果瓦才看见波希米亚姑娘正在两个男人的胳膊里挣扎，他们想堵住她的嘴不让她叫喊。那可怜的山羊吓坏了，低着头咩咩地叫着。
“救命呀，夜巡队！”甘果瓦叫喊着，勇敢地走向前去。抓住那少女的两个人中有一个转过头来，原来是伽西莫多那张可憎的脸。
甘果瓦并没有逃开去，但他没有再往前走一步了。
伽西莫多朝着他走来，一反手把他抛到了四步开外的石板路上，又迅速回过身去走进黑暗里，把少女举起来搭在他的一只胳膊上，好象搭一条绸披巾似的。他的同伴跟着他，那可怜的山羊悲哀地咩咩叫着跟在他们身后。
“捉凶手呀！捉凶手呀！”不幸的波希米亚姑娘喊道。
“快到那边去，小子们，去给我把那个恶棍赶走！”忽然附近有个骑马的人用打雷般的声音喊道。他从邻近的一个十字路口横冲直闯地急驰而来。
他是国王的近卫弓箭手队长，从头到脚都武装着，手里拿着宝剑。
他从惊呆了的伽西莫多手臂里夺下波希米亚姑娘，把她横放在自己的马鞍上。那可怕的驼子从惊讶中清醒了，冲过来想把少女夺回去。十五六个手握双刃剑的弓箭手出现在那个队长身后。那是国王近卫军的一支分队，奉了巴黎总督罗贝尔·代斯杜特维尔老爷的命令在巡夜。
伽西莫多给包围了，抓住了，绑上了。他咆哮着，吐着唾沫，咬着牙。
要是在白天，单只他那张由于愤怒而变得更加怕人的脸，就会把那支巡逻队吓跑啦。但是黑夜解除了他那可怕的武器——丑陋。
他的同伴在他们扭打的当儿溜走了。
波希米亚姑娘在那军官的马上妩媚地坐直了身子，把双手放在那个年轻人的肩头，仔细地端详了他几分钟。好象被他那英俊的容貌和搭救她的好意打动了。随后她首先打破沉默，用她那本来就很温柔的声音更加温柔地问道：“军官先生，您尊姓大名？”
“我是近卫队长弗比斯·德·沙多贝尔，我听您吩咐，我的美人！”军官挺直身子回答。
“谢谢您！”她说。
可是当近卫队长伸出有小胡子的嘴想去吻那个姑娘的时候，她便从马上一下子滑落下来，象支掉到地上的箭一般地逃跑了。
她消失得比箭还快。
“去她妈的，”近卫队长说道，一面把绑着伽西莫多的皮带系得更紧了些，“我没有好好看牢那个婊子。”
“您要干什么呀，队长？”一个兵士说道，“会唱歌的鸟儿已经飞掉了，蝙蝠还留在这儿。”