Esmeralda [a drama in three acts founded on Victor Hugo's popular novel of Notre Dame.]

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Fitzball, Edward

Esmeralda
Original complete ed

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COMPLETE.

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ESMERALDA.

BY EDWARD FITZBALL.

CQINAL COMPLETE EDITION.-PRICF

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ESMERALDA;

A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.

BOUNDED ON VICTOR HUGO'S POPULAR NOVEL OF " NOTRE DAME,"
BY EDWARD FITZBALL.

JLACDE FBOLLO (Monk of Notre

Dame) Mr. 0. Smith.

:APTAIN PH<EBCS (of the King's

Archers) Mr. Osbaldiston

IPTAIN KKNKMT (his Friond)...

IEKKE GKIN.IUIKE (Poet and

Puppct-Shuw-Man)

JASIMODO (thi- Deformed) ...
>PIN (King of the Beggars) ...

First Performed at the Surrey Theatre April 14, 1834.

KSMERALDA (the Gipsy Girl) .
hT. GUI>DLE (tho Hecluso)
MAHIETTK ta Citizen's Wife) ,
MADAME GONDELACRIER ...
FLEUR-DE-LIS

OUDAKDK ) /*__ ftossip^) '••
dERVAISE j

Coucou (a Bohemian Widov
alias Damoiselle)

.Mr. Ursiyii

Mr. Vale.
Mr. Y:i: »-.•«.
Mr. Rogers.

Mrs. V

Mrs. V,

Mrs Wilkinson.

Mrs. VaU-.

Mi.-s i

Mi>s Yoi:ii!».

Mrs. White.

Mrs. Blake.

Wo. 346. Dicks' Standard Plays.

o o s T TJ :rvr

PERIOD— Louis XI., 1482.

MALE.— Hair long and bushy, but cut off straight across the forehead, beard and moustache seldom
worn, the toes of boots, shoes, and sollerets were long and pointed, the doublets were short, barely
reaching to the hips, with small erect collars open in the throat — the hats were high, and of a sugar-
loaf shape, with the brim generally peaked down in front and turned np behind, where between it and
the crown a feather (when rank permitted) was worn — the flowing robes over a tight, dress and the
turban-like head gear of the previous reign, is often met with in illustrations of this date.

FEMALE. — The outer dress vei-y long, with tight sleeves; the girdle worn high, from which the
collar is turned back over the shoulders and behind the neck, showing in front and beneath (when held
up for freedom of walking), an embroidered corset and petticoat ; the hair is little seen, being thrust
under the high conical head-dress, from the end of which a long and light veil is suspended.

CLAUDE FROLLO.— A monk's gown, with large sleeves and hood, shaven crown.

PH<EBCS. — Short full doublet, reaching only to the hips, silk embroidered pantaloons, and long
pointed ankle shoes, dagger, and sword hanging from waist belt.

ERNEST. — Same as Phoebus. 2nd dress .- Half armour.

PIERRE G-RINGOIRE. — Plain jerkin and pantaloons, tied together with strings, showing shirt round
waist, ankle s-Locp.

QUASIMODO. — The same shape, but padded to deformity and strength, red shock hair.

BEGGABS.— Tattered, dresses of any shape.

EXECUTIONER. — Black dress and mask.

MADAME GONDELAUHIER and FLEUK-DE-LYS. — Ladies' dresses of the time.

©UDAitDE ami GERVAISE.— Stuff dresses, and white linen caul caps.

Coucou.— Tattei-ed dre?s.

(&UDULE. — Grey serge dress, dishevelled hair.

ESMERALDA. — Lst dress : Fancy dress of various colours, trimmed with ribbon and lace, coloured
boots, and plaited hair. 2nd dress : Plain white dress.

STAGE DIRECTION'S.

EXITS AKD ENTRANCES.— R. means Eiglit; L. Left; D. F. Door in Flat ; R. D. Sight Door; L. D.
Left Door; S. E. Second rut ranee; U. E. Upper Entrance ; M. D. Middle Door; L. U. E. Left Upper
Entrance; II. U. E. lliyht Upper Entrance; L. S. E. Left Second Entrance ; P. S. Prompt Side; 0. P.
Opposite Prompt.

RELATIVE POSITIONS.— R. means Sights L. Left; C. Centre; E. C. Sight of Centre; L. C. Left of
Centra.

E KG. C. LO. L.

*•* The Reader w supposed (o be- on the Stage, facing tlw Audience.

ESMERALDA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.— The Place before Notre Dame, with Belfry
Window, through which QUASIMODO appears
ringing the chimes, which are heard to strike • he
then retires— on R. is a grated cell — aston«/ountain,
L. — a puppct-sHoto. c., representing a in
o rn „• . .pie are assembled— M AH 1 KTT I-: ,

3TAOHH, OUDARDE, and GERVAISE arc

fitting on the edge of the fountain— GRINGOIRE
-d aa a bujfoon, with a long staff, directs the
mystery, Ac.

Grin. (Pompously.) Yes, my intellectual and en-
IJghtentQ friends— just as I, Monsieur Gringoire,
puppet-show man, poet, and principal traffic writer
to the crowned heads and cardinals of all Europe,
Asia, and Africa, have described the overthrow of
the terribly-renowned Saracen Giant, Hurlohomo-
; i nardo do Phosphorioriosto, by that valorous
knight of France, Jamaisof the Glass Sword, BO it
:ictiially befel in the Holy Land. Now, ladies and
gentlemen, you shall have the honour of seeing how
tin1 knight made the grand coup ; and how the pon-
derous head of the giant actually rolled forty lc:iirncs
into the ocean, which, being stained with his blood,
has ever since that day been called the Bed Sea !
Now silence, ladies and gentlemen — not a breath 1 —
the curtain is about to rise again — hush !

AIL Hnsh ! hush !

(The sound of a distant tambourine
heard, L. u. s.)

People. Esmeralda! E.smeralda!

(All except Mahiette, Eustache, Oudarde,
Gcrrni.-i', A-.-., hurry out, L. ; and they
appear so lost in gossijwig as to be
unconscious of the passing scene —
Eu.vfaohe munching a cake— Gringoire,
as the People retire, throws himself
inlo an attitude of despair.)

Grin. Gone! — fled! — all! to gaze at a prancing
gipsy girl. Are her little feet to be more appreciated
tli:ui iny great head? — the head of the Giant
Hurlohomosanguinardo! Oh, infamy!— oh, insult
to the tragic muse ! and the exquisite poetry of the
unrivalled Gringoire ! I shall run mad ! I could
tear my hair !— beat out my brains with vexation !—
but I won't do it. If they hare no brains, is that
any reason why I should dash out mine ? Besides,
here, I see, aro three intellectual ladies, who still
possess discrimination enough to remain and en-
courage the refinement of my splendid mystery.
(.1; Broaching and bovring.) Sensible and illustrious
gentlewomen — yon, I perceive, flowers of the fine
arts, and princesses of true taste, for so I must com-
pliment you

Mnhiet. Ugh!
bank ?

What's that. Monsieur Mounte-

Grin. Mount c — but it's to prove my philosophy.
(To Mahiette) You, madam, I say, and you, exquisite
ladies, (bowing) with a perfect consciousness of the
truly sublime — with my erudite and inexplicable
mystery performing before your ravished eyes-
yon, I say, are not like unto the rest of the fools,
running off to look at a poor, pitiful, capering
Egyptian— this Esmeralda— who -

(Tambourine again.)

Mahiet. (starting up) Esmeralda! listen!— so it
is, I declare. Come along, Cousin Gervaise, you
must see Esmoralda! — come along, Eustache.
Thank'e for telling us, kind Gringoire, or we should
have never heard the tambourine. Come, come.

(They hurry out at back, L. u. E.; whila

Gringoire, nearly fainting, supports

himself against the fountain.)

Grin. The world's at an end! The candles of

human nature are all going out. There go the last

three and a little one. ( Looking after them— tam-

bourine again.) That infernal 'tambourine again I

the sound of it drives mo wild ; but I'll have my re-

venge. The conclusion of the terrible mystery

shall be buried in eternal chaos. (Approaching the

show.) Come to my arms, renowned knight of

France — immeasurable head of the Giant Hurloho-

mosangninardo, into my pocket. Deluded and

ignorant people of Paris, I blush for — I pity — but I

desert you— bah !

(He takes up the show — is rushing out at
bacfc, L., as the cry " Esmeralda " is
reneiced and the people begin to return
with a throng of Gipsies dancing.
ESMERALDA appears amongst them;
at sight of her, Gringoire hurries
out, K., Ac. The Gipsies spread
a carpet, on which Esmeralda
performs her dance, Ac. Quasimodo
appears gazing over the turrets
of the church; and CLAUDE in a
black mantle and hood, enters, L.
Esmeralda hands roiuid the tam-
bourine — money is given her — she
offers her ta?nbourine towards Claude
the last.)

Claude, (t., giving money) Were it my soul, I'd
give it thee, beautiful Egyptian.

Esrner. (L. c., starting, and dropping the money.)
He again ! — ever thus, upon my steps — this secret
dread I (to Claude.) What would you with mi> ?—
yon that wear the outward form of piety ? Is it in
mockery, or — yet speak not — leave me — nay, then
I, at least, will hence, (Going, B. 1 E.)

Ifahiet. (Seizing her arm.) Stay, Esmeralda I

ESMERALDA.

My cousin, here, (pointing to Oervaise) who lias '
come all the way from Rheims to see everything
that is rare and curious in Paris, would fain that
Ton should point out to her the first letter of her
lover's name. Do it, Esmeralda. Here is silver for
thee.

Esmer. (Whispering.) Not here— not here ; there
are eyes gazing upon me that I love not, looks that
annihilate joy, as ill stars are said to blight the
young- flowers of the mountains.

Mahiet. Ah, I see ! It's that ugly Hunchback, the
bell ringer of Notre Dame. The idiot, he has left
off ringing the chimes ; and there he is, on the
battlements, staring at you, and fixed as one of the
stone monsters in the fretwork.

Esmer. Quasimodo, I meant not him. I

Mahiet. Oh ! then, it's sister Gudule, the mad re-
cluse, who lives in yonder cell. (Gudule appears at
grating, R. 2 E. only for a moment.) You are afraid
of her, I think ?

Esmer. (Recoiling at sight of Gudule.) Yes — yes,
I am. Her child, as you know, was stolen by gipsies
some years ago ; and I never pass the grated window
of her solitary abode, that she does not call after
and denounce me, as though I were the author of
her misery. I, so humble, so defenceless ; but it
is not of her I speak. ( Looking fearfully towards
Claude.)

Mahiet. No ! of whom then ?

Esmer. (R. .c.) Of that hooded man, see!— He
follows me about like a dark shadow. Keep between
us, Mahiette — screen me from him. I know not
why, but the serpents, which sometimes cross my
path in my wild wanderings among the hills, are
less terrible to me than yonder glaring monk. I
that have such a fearless heart ! — Feel how my hand
trembles !

Mahiet. (Looking at Claude, who draws his cowl
over his face.) 'Tis — I really suspect, I'm not
certain, Clande Frollo, the monk — the alchymist —
who shuts himself up at midnight in yonder dark
tower of Notre Dame, to practise, as some think,
(whispering) necromancy. The devil, 'tis believed
in Paris, helps him to make gold there ; and Quasi-
modo is his familiar, no doubt. (WTuspering.)

Esmer. Necromancer ! I'll not here remain :
where he is, there is no sunlight ; he spreads him-
self, as it were, an interposing cloud 'twixt me and
happiness. Let go my hand, he is nearer still.

Ugh I

[She crosses and hurries out, with evident
disgust, as Claude advances. People
follow. Claude makes a sign to Quasi-
modo, uiTio retires ; Mahiette, Eitstache,
and Gervaise remain ; Claude looks
after Esmeralda, then enters the church,

1. U. E.

Mahiet. Esmeralda— gone ! Well, we shall meet
again near the Pont Neuf . But, by-the-bye, cousin,
yon have not yet seen the interior of Notre Dame ;
let us enter.

(Gudule, pale and her hair dishevelled,
appears at the grating, R.)

Gudw. My child ! — where art thou ?

Mahiet. (Softly). 'Tis the maniac, Gudule.

Gudu. Give me my child, I sa^, accursed gipsies —
my poor, poor child — I heard it cry — yes, yes, my
child !

Mahiet. Ah ! she mistakes my Eustache for her
lost child. Hush, Enstache, hush !

(Clinging to child.)

Gudu. Give it me ; I am its mother — its heart-

broken mother ! Oh, how my brain burns — how my
heart aches! Pray, pray give me my child!
Help!— murder!

(TFildly rushing from cell, and searching about.)
Mahiet. Poor soul! Come softly away. (Organ
in church.) Hark ! the solemn organ of the cathe-
dral! Unfortunate Gudule! — let us go in, and
supplicate that she may one day recover her child.

Gudu. Cursed gipsies! — my child! Ah, her
voice ! (Listening to organ.) She is there, on high
—she speaks to me from heaven— my child !— I am
praying, praying !

(Organ music.— They steal into the
church; Gudule is suddenly sub-
dued by the tones of the organ, and is
seen to sink in devotion on her knees,
audibly weeping, as the scene closes.)

SCENE II.— The Steeple of the Belfry.
Enter QUASIMODO, from behind a bell.

Quas. Outcast from my birth; of no race — no
kin, deformity that I am — I love / I, that am loved
of no earthly creature, that never knew the sweet
endearment of one parental — one approving smile
— that am run from for my hideousness — I love!
Mothers do hide their children from my approach,
as from an ogre ! Maidens, at the sight of me — me,
Quasimodo, the monstrously compounded hunch-
back of Notre Dame— fly in terror; yet I madly,
despairingly, I love I — and such a damsel, that silver-
winged spirits, which, so saintly tongues proclaim,
hover over these battlements, might proudly deck
themselves in her surpassing beauty. Oh, Esme-
ralda! Esmeralda! why did these gushing eyes
ever behold thee ? — close them merciful Death, in
thine eternal sleep ! Earth, bury me from the
world !— f rom misery— from her— myself!

(Throws himself doum.)

Enter CLAUDE, cautiously, K.

Claude. (Gazing at him.) Quasimodo!

Quas. (.Not regarding.) Esmeralda!

Claude. (Harshly.) What says the fool ? Quasi-
modo.

Quas. (Springing up.) My benefactor !

Claude. That word becomes thee well. (.4pproach-
tngj Quasimodo, thou hast, at least, a grateful
memory.

Quas. I hope, a grateful heart.

Claude. We shall see presently, when I show thee
that I require thy service.

Quas. Service !— speak— command I

Claude. Dare I trust thee ?

Quas. When by an unnatural mother, I was
disclaimed — left, a worse than defenceless infant
a hideous one ! — exposed on the cold steps of Notre
Dame, — when the "spectators, — who mistook me,
the foundling, for a monster, — would have cast me
into the Seine, — your pity saved me from their
fury. You reared me— protected me— made me
here, what most I wished to be, bell-rinrrer of Notre
Dame : — Life, a,nd more than life, I owe to yon ;
yet you ask, Quasimodo, " dare I trust thee ?"

Claude. Well, well ; thou art the only being that
shall know my secret. I should be reviled, mocked,
— but I can no longer struggle with my passion.

Quas. Passion ?

Claude. Yes. I lore /

Quas. (Devoutly.) I am glad of it,— 'tis a blessed
emotion.

ESMERALDA.

Claud*. Amazement! Canst thou love, Quasi-
modo ?

Quo*. Can I? (Mournfully.) Oh— yes— yes. Is
it because that I am deformed, my heart should
not be like unto other men's ? The diamonds which
deck our shrine, often, have I heard von say, had
once, like Quasimodo, a rudo exterior : bethink
thee, sir, man's eye looked coldly on them then,
and dreamed little of that hidden radiance which
hath since burst forth, and burns, even when the
altar-lamp expires.

Claud*. (Looking at him.) Poor wretch ! What
sentiments are these ? — he understands my feelings,
—'tis well! Thou hast strength and cunning,—
and when, as I shall ordain, the maiden whom I
adore, comes, in the dusk this evening, to the shrine
of the Virgin, thou, like a hidden tiger, must rush
forth, seize her in thine arms, and hurry her to
the cell in the black turret.

Quos. Know I this maiden ?

C/aude. Oh, she is well famed; all Paris knows
her for her grace — her beauty.

Duos. And her name?

Claude. (JPhispfringinhisear.) Esmeralda.

Quos. (Staggering from him.) No ! — not that
name!— No!

Claude. What ails thee ?— am I a viper— to sting
thee— thou startest so ?

Ouos. O— h!

Claude. (Harshly.) Wilt do my bidding P

Qua*. I must.

Claude. (Fiercely.) Thou shalt.

Ouos. I will — and pay thee more than life.

Claud*. Swear to guard my secret ! Yon hesi-
tate.

Quo«. (After a pause.) No! I swear.

Claude. Follow me then. The moon is np already
— all is arranged. In thy herculean grasp, she
will not have the power to straggle ; thy hideous
look will stifle her screams. Follow me, or we
shall be too late— haste.

[Ea;it, R.

Quos. And I am to fold her in these desolate
armp, press her to this despairing, aching breast —
ecstacy of worlds — though but for a moment. The
deed is crime,— but the requital,— the reanital ! It
is something in the desert to gaze upon the well — it
is a dream that refresheth the soul, though we
drink not of the fountain.

Claude. (Without.) Quasimodo!

Quo*. Master, I come.

SCENE III'— A splendid Apartment in th« House
of Madame de Gondclaricur, with an open window
and balcony discovering a bird's-eye view of Paris.

FLEUR DE LYS is painting at a table ; ERNEST
i« turning over the leaves of a book ; while DIANE
and ALOISE are embroidering tapestry.

Enter MADAME DE GONDELAURIER, B.

Madame. Heyday! love — music! Eh, young
people ? Well, children, yours is the age of
tenderness ; but, (looking about) where's the lover ?

Fleur. (Confusedly.) The lover, madam ?

Madame. Where's my nephew, Captain Phoebus ?
If he be not thy lover, I know not who is. What
fays Captain Ernest ?

Ernest. (Stammering.) Really, madam, I— that

Jkfadawe. You, Captain Ernest, the most intimate

friend of Phcebus during his abode in Paris, must
have heard from himself of the marriage decided
upon by the family, at least six years since, to take
place between Phoebus and his cousin, Demoiselle
Fleur de Lys, here ?

Ernest. (Sighing.) Oh, madam, I plead not
ignorance of that affair.

Madame. But where is your friend ? I left him
with yon in this apartment.

Ernest. He must have stolen away, or

Fleur. I hoard him yawn while we were singing.

Ernest. He doth not love music, I believe.

Madame. There I think yon are mistaken, for I
observe, that, although apparently indifferent to
the music of this chamber, no is now in the balcony
listening with profound attention (pointing) to the
music of a tambourine. Why, Phoebus !

(Coiling.)

Enter CAPTAIN PHCEBUS, L.

Phoebus. Madam, I am here, obedient to the word
of command.

Madame. Methinks, Captain Phoebus, thoa
displayest strange apathy towards thy intended
bride. She and I have now been in Paris a whole
month, and, in all that time, scarcely hast thon
passed one day in her society. Strangers would
suppose you married already.

P/uEbus. On my honour, I crave pardon.

Madame. Well, well ! If Fleur de Lys can over-
look such neglect — but, in my time, let me tell
you

Fleur. Nay! nay! dear mamma! Soldiers, you
should remember, have a license for forgetfuluocs
in affairs of the heart : their various duties

Pfuebus. Thank yon, sweet cousin! By my
gorget, but yon waive the flag of truce nobly, and
make the prettiest minister ofpeace I ever beheld ?
But, to be candid with you, I have no taste for
melody ; tuneful notes ever drive me drowsy. If I
must have music, I'm for something martial —
something startling — drum-like.

Madame. (With sarcasm.) Aye, I'll warrant me,
if it be only a tambourine.

Phabits. A tambourine? (Tambourine.) Again!

Madame. Hark! (Looking out.) I pray, who is
that young female, surrounded by a throng ? She
wields the tambourine with much grace and
agility.

Ernest. It is the young Egyptian, Esmeralda.

Fleur. Oh, I have heard of her : she is the talk of
all Paris. 'Tis told me that she can glance into
a maiden's palm, and repeat to her the first letter
of her lover's name !

Madame. Upon my word, it is a wonderful
faculty, of which, I percieve, these young ladies
have been close observers. Simpletons ! The girl
seems pretty. (Looking out at balcony.)

PTwebus. (With enthusiasm.) Beautiful as Hebe !

Madame. (Looking at him tcith suspision.)
Indeed ! And her eyes are very brilliant, are they
not, Phoebus ?

Phrebus. Twin stars, madame, I assure you !

Madame. Truly, nephew, thou canst be both
enthusiastic and poetical when the impulse moves
thee ! And this young sybil hath spells and love
charms for gentlemen as well as for ladies ! Eh,
Phoebus ?

P/ufbus. Indeed, madam, they do report as much
in our regiment.

Madame. ( With sarcasm to PTuzbus.) Hath she skill
enough thinkest thou, on the report of thy regiment,

ESMERALDA.

to reveal to Fleur de Lys, the first letter of the
name of her future husband ?

Phcebus. (Confused.) Perhaps— I cannot tell!
(Aside. ) What the deuce doth she mean ?
, Fleur. Oh, I should like much to know.

Madame. Thou shalt be gratified, child ; her eyes
are turned on this balcony. (Waving her handker-
chief.) Ho, fortune-teller ! Gipsy girl ! Jervayse,
admit the Egyptian.

Phcebus. Nay, madam ; the girl, in our presence,
might be frightened

(Con/used.)

Madame. Frightened! It is not the nature of
gipsies. (Aside.) I wish thou mayst not prove more
confused than she ! I perceive, Phoebus, that her
timidity is easily overcome ; she is here.

Enter ESMERALDA, L.

Esmer. (Curtseying.) Ladies, I am summoned.
Am I to sing or dance ? I know the Bong of the
mountain— the lightest footstep of the Egyptian !
(Touching the tambourine )

Madame. (Haughtily.) Yon tell fortunes, I
believe ?

Esmer. (Proudly.) No!

Madame. What, then, is thine art ?

Esmer. If, by fortune-telling, you mean natnral
anticipation, I guess shrewdly at the first letters of
lovers' names, by reading

Madame. The planets ?

Esmer. (Ingenenusly .) Yes, if lovers' eyes be
and at least they are so, lady, of the

Madame. (Aside.) Indeed, but she is subtle ! this
is no ordinary mind — may be, one most dangerous.
(To Esmeralda.) Is it in thy power to inform me
which of these two gentlemen is the lover of that
lady?

(Fleur de Lys and Ernest confused;
Phcebus turns aside.)

Ernest } Dear madam> this is to°

Madame. Hush ! Now, Egyptian, make a trial
of thy skill.

Esmer. Which of these two gentlemen is the lover
of that lady? Which of— (Seeing Phcebus.) Oh,
Phcebus !

(Suppressing emotion, as Phcebus presses

his finger on his lips.)

Madame. Ah, she repeats his name — Phoebus ! At
least, in this respect thon art correct.

Esmer. Correct! (Agitated.) Phceus

(Checking herself.)

Madame. Yes, and see, the pleasing confirmation
overcomes my daughter.
Fleur. Indeed — I faint ! Support me !

Ernest. Permit me, dear Fleur

Madame. Dear ! Monsieur ! — Phoebus, art thou
transformed to a statue? Thy intended bride
fainting, and thou immovable !

Esmer. Bride ! Lady, I •

(Phcebus awkwardly assists Fleur De Lys,
still glancing at Esmeralda — Ernest
troubled and confused.)

Madame. No thanks— there is gold for thee.
(Aside.) Thou knowest but too well the name of my
nephew Phoebus. Go ! I hope thou'rt innocent as
thy looks portray thee— go !

Esmer. (Throwing the purse at her feet.) Innocent !
—Gold requites no degradation, lady. The poor
gipsy, Esmeralda, would reject gold, piled to the

lofty summit of these domes, were it proffered, even
by a queen, as a warrant for unmerited insult !

Madame. (Proudly.) Audacious !— My child !

(She turns to Fleur De Lys, who is
supported by Diane, Aloise, and Ernest
—off, B.)

Phcebus. Esmeralda!

Esmer. Oh ! do not detain me, Phoebus. If what
I have heard be true, the wretched Esmeralda has
only one consolation left her— to die!

Plicebus. Hear me swear it, Esmeralda ! 'Tis thee
alone I love ! I

Madame. (Outside.) Phcebus!

Esmer. (Mournfully.) Go! I'll not detain thee;
an hour hence, as we did appoint, I'll meet thee at
the Virgin's statue — then, perhaps — and never
more — Oh ! Phoebus, it was at the feet of that pure
image you first told me that you loved me — a poor
gipsy girl ; and, in return, I gave you all I possessed
in the world— my heart. Perhaps it was too much
to expect sincerity from one so high, so very high,
above me ; but — let me go, Phoebus, I cannot help
weeping, and there are tears which my pride would
conceal, even from you.

Phcebus. Esmeralda, Esmeralda ! Hence with
these trembling drops ! The love that I shall ever
feel for thee only, I have sworn to ; and what I
have sworn to, I will die for.

Esmer. Noble Phoebus, pardon! I know, I feel
that I have wronged thee ; but for a moment — tho
haughty looks of — my doubts — I was so very
wretched — but hither comes the menial — perhaps
to repel me from the door. (Going.)

Phcebus. (Detaining her.) Esmeralda,

Enter SERVANT ,bowing to Phcebus, as from
Madame, he then crosses to L. c., and 'makes an
insolent menace to Esmeralda, which
Phcebus perceives.

Phcebus. (To Servant.) Stay, sirrah ! (Pointing to
R.) Yonder lies your duty; be it mine to attend
this young Bohemian; and learn in future, to
repress insult to the humble, which officious
servants are too apt to inflict at the expense of their
masters.

{Exit, leading out Esmeralda, l.,
Servant bowing, R.

SCENE IV.— The Virgin's Statue. Chimes strike.

Enter CLAUDE and QUASIMODO, disguised,
cautiously, R., night t?ucfcens.

Claude. It is already dusk. (CTiimes.)

Quas. Notre Dame strikes the hour.

Claude. Hark! She comes! (Tambourine heard.)
She is alone !

Quas. Defenceless!

Claude. Slave ! whence that tone of pity ? No
one at hand ! Here is the key of the turret ; while
1 unlock the door, spring thou forward, and, stifling
her shrieks with thy cloak — silence !

Enter ESMERALDA, L.

Esmer. (Mechanically touching her tambourine.)
Will he be here ? Oh, yes ! my heart fully assures
me of that. He does love me— I am convinced he
loves me — falsehood never veiled itself under looks
like his ; deception never spoke in such sweet tones.
Ah! the clock of Notre Dame tolls nine ! (Clocfc con-
cludes striking.) Phoebus !— I— thou here again !

(Trembling.)

ESMERALDA.

Claude. Esmeralda ! why tremble, why recoil at

•ht of him that loves i\\ mo, one

moment, in mercy— my passion is boundless -ehain-

the sea ! If thou would'st not drive mo to a

deed of madness, hear me !

i. 1 1 avo I not told thee — have I not said to
thee, another has my heart! Thine, mysterious
In uii,' ! — Oh, never, never ! Be thou mendicant, or
monk, disguise befits not innocence to wear. If
monk, — and such I deem thee, — back to thy
cloister; for holy men, tin TO are beads, and books,
and prayers; their office 'tis to save the sonl, not
sink it to perdition. If open guilt, which rushes
like a tiger on, be criminal, what is that which
wears the mask of sanctity for most unholy pur-
poses ?— Avoid thee ! Avoid thee !

(Going — he detains her.)

Claude. Nay! we part not. (To Quasimodo, who

appears immovable.) Now— let no cry escape her—

fixed ! Immovable ! Cowardly idiot ! Thus then !

(Seizing her in his arms.)

Esmer. Help ! Phoebus, whore art thou ? Ah !
(Seeing Phte&us.) Ha, ha, ha !

(Wildly joyful— etruggling.)

Re-enter PHCEBUS, with his sword drawn, L.

Pha'bus. Esmeralda ! Ruffian, down !

( Striking him o/with his sword.)
Claude. (Draicing a dagger.) A blow, from — ah !
She I — If not mine, not thine.

(He is rushing towards Esmeralda, tcJio

retreating with a shriek, throws herself

into the arms of Phaibus, at that

moment Quasimodo springing forward

arrests Crude's arm — picture.)

Phcebus. Maniac ! Who else would raise his arm

against a woman ? — begone, or meet thy death !

K-:ii<Talda, calm thee!— calm thee, loved one, calm

p. (Shuddering.) Away, away !

[He supports Tier out, L.

Claude. Am I a maniac ? — and thou my sentinel,
so to disarm me ? I could turn my rage on thee,
(checking himself) yet, my faithful Quasimodo, it
was kind to stay my frantic arm. One crimson
spot on her fair bosom, wrought by this jealous,
distracted hand, had plunged my soul into a sea of
blood. Thank thee, Quasimodo, thy master is not
angry ; thank thee. Speak, Quasimodo, why
ga'zest thou that way ?

Quos. She is there, with him, alone.

Claude. What devil art thou, to fan again my
heart into a flame ?

Quos. (Looking after Phcebus, L.) They approach
the house of the gipsy kin?.

Claude. Clopin, the gipsy king — his house. In
this disguise, I also have entrance there ; this golden
key. (Shows a purse.) Get into yonder boat upon
the Seine— tho gipsy king's house looks towards the
water— should I need thine uid. Now, I know not
why — I'll summon thee, by a lamp placed at the
wicket — dost hear me ?

Quos. (Starting.) Master, I do— I— yes.

Claude. A lamp placed i' the window ! Bo vigi-
lant—cautions.

[Exit, B.

Quos. (After a pause.) I dream! (Eubbui<; hi*
eys. ) She is not of this earth ! And he— Phoebus—
he is of a brighter region than I. I — Ugh! There
my hatrful shadow on tho wall ! How ap-
palling must be the image whose outline is that of
a fiend ! a fiend ! Why, then, have I eyes, to be

sensible to the charms of innocence and beauty ?
A In-art open to love — exquisite love! how much
purer than that of yonder monk P He would
crumble in his enraged grasp, tho flower his hand
is not permitted to gather ; while I — no, no ! sho
no vi T can be mine — never, never! (Wec]>».) Yet
would I not despoil her of her joy ; why should I ?
If she 1 . he is worthy of her love, for

she is incapable of loving what is worthless ! I
think I could bo happy to see her happy, eveu with
this Phoebus. But the monk — I've sworn to guard
his secret — it is my duty/ Yet from him I would
preserve thee, Esmeralda. (Firmly.) I u-i 11 preserve
thee, though it bo in death ! and oh, to die— to di<-
for Esmi-ralila. is tho only certain hope of the
wretched Quasimodo.

SCENE V.— Inferior of an ancient house frequented
by tho Gipsies. A window in l>ack, looks towards
the Seine, and Notre Dame by moonlight £c:

CLOPIN, King of the Cii^ics, seated on an
elevated chair near a Jire. Other GIPSIES, male
andfemalc, at a table. Sonic sinj, some dawce,
Ac., &c.

Clopin. Enough, enough. Bring forth the
offender who hath had the audacity, without our
royal leave or license, to thrust himself into our
respectable community I Whero is tho knave?
Place him before us !

All. He is here.

GRINGOIRE led on, somewhat perturbed.

Clopin. Now, scoundrel, what is your name, title,
or condition ?

Grin. My name, so please your majestic majesty,
is Pierre Gringoire ; title I have none better than
poverty ; and, as for my condition, it implies star-
ration, on wliich I humbly ground my chum to
jolong to your very benevolent and ancient fra-
ternity.

Clopin. No compliments ; they offend our dignity.
Remember, I am thy judge. You have intruded
on our territories, and must abide tho conse-
quences.

Grin. What consequences can reduce a man to a
worse state than hunger ?

Clopin. Art thon a thief, a beggar, or a
vagrant ?

Grin. I have not that honour, great king I I am
an author !

Clopin. An author ! Thine is a hopeless calling.
lang him at once 1 The sentence is pronounced.
iVe dismiss the court.

Grin. Oh, most puissant king! You cannot
mean what you say. I am the poet Gringoirc,
whose puppets so majestically perform their
naster's tragedies, that your real actors of flesh and
>lood hang themselves in despair. Hero are two
of my stars.

(Pulling out ttoo puppets.)

Clopin. Stars ! Ha, ha, ha ! Give them to their
native element.

(Throws them info the fire.)

Grin. Murder! By the devil's hoofs, if he has
not thrown the chivalrous Knight of France and
:he Giant Hurlohomosanguinardo alike into the
lames! Well, so to perish was worthy two such
icroes ! Admit me into your society, great king of
>ickpockets, though I am a poet. Recollect, JSsop

ESMERALDA.

was a vagabond; Homer, a beggar; Mercury, a
thief I Don't hang me, sweet king !

(Beseechingly.)

Clopin. There is only one way to save thee.

Grin. Name it, illustrious.

Clopin. If any of our ladies would accept thee
for a husband.

Grin. (Looking about.) Must I marry, mighty
king of vagabonds ?

Clopin. Or be hanged !

Grin. (Looking about.) Lovely ladies, which of
you will be the fortunate woman ? Speak first —
How ! all silent ! What ! not one of you fly into
these extending arms.

{Women laugh and retire.

Clopin. Yon must be hanged !

Grin. Oh, the insensible sex! Where's Esme-
ralda, the gipsy Thalia? her comedy and my
tragedy might form a pretty couplet, and dissolve

the rivalship existing between us. Gringoire and
Esmeralda married!
shake haiids

the sun and moon would

Clopin. Esmeralda ! Bah ! I have one for thee
more worthy thy deserts.

Grin. Say you so ! Worthy my deserts ! then she
must needs be Venus herself, enamoured of this
godly person, and descended to earth for the pur-
pose of snatching me to her fair arms. (Sniffing.) I
Bniff Ambrosia ! The goddess is not far off.

Clopin. No ; just at hand. Ho ! Demoiselle
Coucon! (Calls.) She has a most sympathizing
heart, and will, I am sure, marry this unfortunate
devil, to save his life. She is poetical too! Call
her hither.

[One of the Gipsies goes off, R.

Grin. Demoiselle Coucou ! How romantic. Poetical
too — sympathetic ! Kind gods ! Her voice is music,
no doubt.

Couc. (Without, R., hoarsely.) Where is the
varlet?

Clopiji. That's Coucon.

Grin. Voice ! Music ! The bellows of the organ
of Notre Dame are more harmonious ; and as f oi-
lier beauty -

Enter COUCOU, R.

A female Cyclops ! Gods, you have deserted your
poet. (Falls senseless.)

Couc. What's the matter with the fool ? Is he
overpowered at the sight of my agreeable looks ?
(Lifts him up.) Come, come, you are not so very
ugly — I've had seven uglier husbands in my time,
though I am so youthful as to be still called
Demoiselle. (Hugging him.)

Grin. A perfect she-bear ! I shall expire !

Co-tic. Give him something to drink.

Grin. (Aside.) She has humanity.

Clopin. Now, kneel, and swear never to divulge
the secrets of this august society.

.411. ( Lifting up different weapons.) Swear !

Grin. (Kneeling.) Oh, most willingly ! I'll swear

, at such kind entreaties.

/lopin. Enough— do not rise; Demoiselle is about
to complete the rite of marriage.

Grin. The rite of marriage ! What is it ?

Clopin. A mere simple form — this earthen jug to
be broken by her gentle hand upon thy soft head.
(Lift* up a jug.)

Gnn. Murder!

(Breaks jug across a stick that is held over
his head.)

Ceuc. There— 'tis done ! (He/alls.) See us, with

anythiiig,
Clopin/.

all ceremony, to our lodgings across the court, for
I have business of importance. Come, dear
husband.

Grin. Dear ! A plaster for my unfortunate

(she loofcs angrily at him.) Coming, sweet bride !
How happy I ought to be.

Clopin. With regal sway I lead the way ! But,
first, the nuptial dance of the Egyptians.

(They elevate Gringoire and Coucou in a

chair. A dance, &c.t is performed.

As they go out in mock procession, D.

L. 3 E., the last person remains, and

closes the door— it is CLAUDE.)

Claude. Did he, then, bear her to some other spot ?

If so, I am here in vain. (Loofcs out at window.) The

dash of oars — it is Quasimodo ! devoted fool — how

faithful to his master ! Ah! that sound !— (running

to the door) — the voice— it is hers !

(He goes into a ruined closet, and is seen
occasionally watching through the dis-
jointed plonks.)

Enter PHCEBUS and ESMERALDA, D. L. 3 E.

Esmer. And you will never forsake me ?

Phcebus. Never!

(They seat themselves by the fire, which
beams on their faces. )

Esmer. And shall I be really the wife of a Captain
of the King's Archers ? A lady— your lady— beauti-
fully dressed — seated in the lattice of a fine house,
while you, on your foaming war steed, prance up and
down the street, the horse tearing up the pavement
with his hoofs ! your bright cuirass glittering in the
sun ? Oh, how proud it will render me— ha, ha,
ha, hal

(Jumping and clapping joyfully her
hands ; an amulet falls from her bosom
— he attempts to pick it up. )

Esmer. (Interposing.) Oh, touch not that amulet !

Phcebus. Is it, then, so sacred ?

Es)ner. Yes; it was given me by a kind nurse,
now no more, who prophesied that its hidden virtues
would one day enable me here in France, to discover
my real mother.

Phcebus. In France ? art thon not a Bohemian ?

Esmer. No, no ; but we will not talk of that now
— it always makes me melancholy. We will speak
of something else — of yourself. Let me gaze at your
sword — (fcisses the sword which he gives her)— dear
sword ! you belong to a valiant man ; it was with
you he defended me from the monk! March,
Phcebus, that I may admire your bright clothes,
hear the clatter of your shining scabbard. (He
marches to and fro.) Oh, how grand ! So happy, I
am, I can't help laughing — he mine! I a lady!
But I am to be your wife, Phojbus ?

Pha'bus. By everything dear to honour, you shall.

Claude. (At back, R.) Liar !

Esmer. (Starting up.) Ugh! What was that?

Phci'bus. (.Rising.) I think it was an echo. (Tafces
the lamp, and looks about.) Ah ! there are boats on
the water — it was a voice from thence.

(Leaves lamp on window, L. C., and
reseats himself.)

Claude. He leaves the lamp in the window —
Quasimodo will take it for the signal. If I could
extinguish it. (Advancing with caution.)

Esmer. Your bride ! Yes, I shall be too happy ;
for then, I shall see you every day, dear Phoebus-
be always near you — hear the rattle of your gold
spurs, constantly on the pavement; and the
Demoiselles will no longer look so scornfully at me.

ESMKRALDA.

I shall bo yours — you mine! Ah! Phoebus, how
brave and good you are ! I ought to love you, and
I do love you, Phoebus — very — very dearly. It is
remarkable, but do you know, Phoebus, that I, who,
scarcely an hour since wept for sorrow, because I
deemed theo lost, am weeping now for joy. (Simply
and tenderly.) Don't be angry with me, Phoebus.
(Placing her head on his breast.)

Phcebus. Angry ! my own dear Esmeralda ! (En-
circling her in his arms.). Give me ono kiss,
Esmeralda !

Esmer. (Rising and affecting to go away.) A kiss ?
Fie, Phoebus.
t Phoebus, (detaining her.) Only one, Esmeralda.

Etmer. (Throwing herself into his arms. Well, take
it. (As he is about to kiss her, tJie stage becomes dark,
in consequence of Claude's blowing out the lamp.
Claude crouches himself.) What was that ?

Phoebus. Nothing. I left the lamp near the
crevice of the lattice— the wind hath blown it out.
'Tis a rough, dark night; the moon entirely with-
draws herself ; the water of the Seine roll on, like
a river of ink.

Esmer. Give me the lamp ; I'll rekindle it, by the
embers here.

Phabus. Not till I've had the kisa.

QUASIMODO appears at window, t. o.

Claude. Fool ! down ! You will betray me else.

Esmer. (Trembling.) That tone— it is the ruffian !
— the same voice I

Phcsbus. (Feeling for his sword grasps Claude's
arm.) Wretch ! whoe'er thou be— my sword— ah !
— quick, Esmeralda— the lamp ! rekindle the lamp !

Claude. Detected — exposed! I — a monk — no
way but this. Abhorred rival ! vengeance!

(Slabs Kim.)

Phoebus. Assassin ! Esmeralda, I am slain ! Oh !

(Falls.)

Esmer. (.Remaining torpid.) Phoebus! Slain!

Claude. Esmeralda! (Kisses her.)

Esmer. Ugh!

(Sinks senseless into a chair, as if dis-
gusted by his touch. QUASIMODO
running in at window, and snatching
a burning brand from the hearth.)

Qua*. If thon hast murdered her (Looking at

her with the torch.) No— she lives. I had stricken
theo dead else.

Claude. Dog ! this way the light. Not dead ; but
wounded and insensible— already he begins to re-
cover. (Loofcs at Pluzbus— noise.) We shall be
surprised — we must be gone.

Quos. (Regarding Esmeralda.) Cold! Pale-
pale ! Shall we not bear away Esmeralda ?

Claude. Yes— no! A thought— a glorious thought
— rushes suddenly into my mind — he — he — must
accompany us.

Ouoa. He

Claude. Silence ! and obey me, as vou would re-
pay the life you owe me. Assist me— Phoebus— to

(Music.— They support Phabus, who
cppcars gradually coming to himself;
they drag him hurriedly off, through
the low window, which, is an a level
with the stage floor, leaving his sword
«nd cap.)

Esmer. (Becowring.) Phoebus — help — mt-rcy —

Phu-huB !

Enter CLOPIN, GIPSIES, and Stranger?, door
L. SE.

Clopin. Esmoralda, what has happened ?

Esmer. (Wildly.) My Phoebus !— they have mur-
dered him.

f.'lopin. Phoebus— they murdered! What dis-
traction is all this?

Esmer. (Wringing her hands.) Phoebus — Phoe-
bus ! (Music.— March of Archers.)

Clopin. Ah, what see I ? A body of the king's
archers in the house of Clopin, the gipsy. Whom
seek you.

Enter ERNEST and ARCHERS, door L. 3 E.

Ernest. I come to command the immediate at*
tendance of Captain Phcubus Chateaupers on hia
Majesty.

Clopin. Captain Phoebus is not here.

Ernest. He was here : I — I saw him enter the
house, — this is his sword — his cap.

Esmer. (E. c.) Yes— they have murdered him !
Look at these terrible spots. (Pointing to floor.)

(Sinks on her knees, gazing on floort and
clasping her hands in anguish.)

Ernest. (L. c.) By heavens, these are evidences
of foul work — violence — struggling.

can explain this ?

Which of you
(Pointing toyloor.)

Enter CLAUDE hastily, as a monk, door L. 3 B.

Claude. (L.) That can I.

Ernest. You, Father Claude ?

Claude. Yes. On my passage, in my boat, across
the Seine, to attend an invalid, I saw two men
lift a body through that window, and bury it in
the waters of the river. I pursued them, but in
vain — the unusual darkness of the night aided
them. I looked through yon lattice ; that girl was
alone in this apartment — she is a confederate of
the assassins. Let her be arraigned, and conducted
to the Confessional for prisoners, at Notre Dame.
It is your duty : this murder must be proved.

(Esmeralda is arrested by th« Archers.)

Clopin. Forbear I we will defend our sister.

(Gipsies advance.)

Ernest. In the King's name, stand back ! or I
will, at once, avenge the destruction of my friend.

Esmer. (Who has remained as if torpid— her eyes
fixed on the floor.) Who is it grasps my arm ? (See-
ing the monk, L.) Ah! fearful being!— that de-
nouncing look !— does he accuse me ? Yes— indis-
tinctly I overheard. But you— (to Ernest)— do

not — cannot believe him ? He is a monster — a

Ah ! because he wears the outward show of devo-
tion, you are deceived— you give no credit to my
words. Pity— mercy ! Alas ! I am a poor friend-
less girl — an outcast — no father — no mother — no
one, now he is murdered, to speak for me— to care
for me! They do not understand me. Whither
would they drag me ? I have done no wrong — I
am innocent— innocent I Save me— you— (to Clopin)
—you— help a poor girl— no father— no mother!
0 — hi

(She struggles violently, and appears
convulsed with agony as they drag her
towards the door.)

Cloptn and Gipsies. (Assuming an attitude of

10

ESMERALDA.

defiance). To the rescue !— rescue !— by knife!— by

fire I

(Music. As Esmeralda, followed by
Claude, is borne off, ihe Gipsies attack
the Military ; they snatch firebrands
from the embers, and hurl them fran-
tically at their opponents ; the house
takes fire, as Ernest, Claude, Esmeralda,
with Archers, &c., cross the Seine in a
boat, tossed by the troubled waters.
The Gipsies crouch in one group in
front ; the Soldiers presenting swords at
them from back of stage. Picture.)

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.— Tlie Ferry House of the Seine.

Enter CLAUDE, wearing a cowl, and conducted by
GRINGOIRE, B. — the latter clad as a beggar.

Claude. That for thee, good ferryman, to mend
thy patches with. Is Demoiselle Coucou at home,
thinkest ?

Grin. She that was Demoiselle Concou, now
Madame Gringoire, is at home, reverend father j
pray walk in.

(He opens the door — Claude enters door in flat.)
She's a pious wife that must needs have her con-
fessor so early of a morning ; and he's a worthy
confessor that pays a tattered ferryman, like me, in
shining silver. There's some mystery in all this.
There's a prisoner in the Ferry House, whom I am
not permitted to see : is it to shrive him that the
monk cometh, or to convert my wife ? If the latter,
and he succeed, let his next experiment be upon
Beelzebub, who is nearer allied to Christianity than
Madame Gringoire. A precious honeymoon I'm
enjoying ! Every morning roused from my peaceful
slumbers with a cudgel, wielded by the tender
hand of my loving wife, with, " Go and ply the ferry
boat till sunset— it will give thee an appetite for
supper," breakfast and dinner being obsolete. At
supper time it is " Go and disguise thyself, not in
drink, but with one leg, one eye, one arm — the
charitable, an' thou beg like a gentleman, will give
thee food." Oh me ! but this mysterious prisoner.
Who can he be ? what can he be ? Does he wear
au iron mask ? sleep in an iron shroud ? or live in
an iron cage ? I'll be no longer curious about it —
I shall only draw down some new trouble on this
devoted head. (A cup of silver is thrown from the
turret, which knocks him down.) Oh, murder!

Mercy, sweet wife ! Indeed I'm not idling ; I

Ah, her favourite silver goblet. (Taking it up.)
How she must love me to throw this at my head !
What's here ? Writing ! (Looking at cup.) They
told me that she was poetical, and this is some little
compliment, beautifully sketched — I know she
leaves impressions that way. (Reads.) "Prisoner!"
Ah ! — " A thousand crowns to whoever will disclose
to Captain Ernest, of the king's archers, that his
friend, Phoebus, is still living a close prisoner in
the Ferry House of the Seine." Phoebus, by every
saint in the year ! Why, that's the very man for
whom the Bohemian, Esmeralda, is condemned to
be executed. Poor girl; here's a discovery. This
testimony of her innocence might yet save her ; but
how to deliver it — I that am watched like a mouse
by a she cat. What a horrible conspiracy ! I'll
thwart it; but have I not sworn never to divulge

the secrets of this diabolical fraternity ? Ah, the
confessor! I'll make him my confidant— the very-
man to accomplish a benevolent deed. Yes,
Emeralda, you Ah, here is the monk.

Re-enter CLAUDE, door in flat.

So, venerated and pious father, hath my tender
wife made confession ?

Claude. An honest one, good son.

Grin. (Looking timidly at the door.) Honest ! You
know, then, of the prisoner ?

Claude. (Starting.) Prisoner! What prisoner ?

Grin. (Aside.) This is her honest confession. (To
Claude.) Not a word to my wife as you compas-
sionate iny bones. But can you read, learned
father? (Showing the cup.) These turrets don't
rain silver cups for nothing, as this slight bump on
my head might testify.

Claude. Ah, I understand. (Aside.) Had this
stratagem succeeded, I had perished for my crime,
and she had still been niy rival's (To Gringoire.)
Phoebus, whom all Paris imagines dead ?

Grin. The same — there, in (poi?iting to turret.)

Claude. (Thrusting the cup into his robe.) Disclose
not thou one syllable of this elsewhere. The inno-
cent Bohemian is in safe hands — it will be her own
fault if I effect not her deliverance.

Grin. Oh, charitable father, there is yet another
innocent whose deliverance thou wouldst do well
to effect.

Claude. (Coldly.) Speak'st thou of Phoebus ?

Grin. No, blessed saint ; of myself, Gringoire, the
poet. I am a lost child of the Muses.

Claude. How am I to save thee ?

Grin. By feelingly causing the head of my precious
wife to be chopped off instead of that of Esmeralda
— the law will be much better satisfied, and I a
philosophic widower.

Claude. Thy wife approacheth.

Enter COUCOU, door in flat.

Couc. Gringoire I

Grin. (Trembling.) Here am I, sweetheart. Im-
pose thy gentle commands on me, that, light as

Cupid on the wings of morning, I may fly to

(Throwing himself into a tiptoe attitude.)

Couc. (Striking him.) Stuff 1 Quick and bring
me in a faggot — or

Grin. Don't exert yourself, dove — I'm going.
(Aside.) A faggot ! Would it were to burn the
witch with ! I (Seeing Coucou angry.) Sugar-
sops, I'm gone ! Oh, la !

[Exit, L., looking beseechingly at Claude.

Couc. What mystery is that ?

Claude. He knows of our captive.

Couc. How?

Claude. (Showing cup.) This device, from yon
window. He must be more closely watched. Three
days, and two thousand crowns are at your
disposal.

Couc. But Esmeralda may not perish ; though for
her beauty I love her not. No ; harm must not
reach her life — even for the gain of a million of
crowns, every crown of gold.

Claude. To that, by bead and book, have I not
solemnly sworn ? I will keep my oath.

Couc. Or terrible will be the fury of our tribe, on
Clopin and on me, for daring, unknown to them, to
tamper with the gill's life.

Claude. If nor prayers, nor suffering, can turn
her heart unto me — to him who loves her beyond
the quiet of his own soul— then, though the axe be

ESMERALDA.

11

raised o'er her head, thon will I save her, evcu a* I
have vowed to thee and thy gipsy king.

Cowc. Kinmirli. Qringoire n-turns.

Cl" ite! [Exit, K.

r GRINGOIRE wi

Couc. Laggard !

I be laggard when I haste to
Oli !

. Thou shalt not bo so when thou ha
from mo.

(She snatches a stick and beats him into

7ioi< si1.)

f/n'n. Oh, inurcy, sweothenrl ! Sugar-posset!
Oli! [Exeunt door in fiat.

SCENE II.— A dark and solitary Dungeon, lit by a
single lump. A .secret door, R.

.IIALDA discovered, in the garb of a penitent,

seated on some straw.

Esmer. How sadly slow the hours in darkness
,\ lien the heart aches, and sleep deserts the
ryrlids ! and yet I slept ; for, in my troubled dreams
a flood of golden sunlight burst upon me, and,
once again, I stood in the clear, beamy day, the
joyous creature of a cloudless world. He was there
—my brave, my noble Phoebus — all radiant as the
sun whose name he bore. I saw him, distinctly, as
eveii now, to my fancy he appears, (risni;/) extend-
ing wide his arms, and, as I bounded to them, ho
v:\nUhed— in his stead — ah -- (Covering her eyes,
and recoiling on her knees.) Horror ! Save me !

Enter CLAUDE through a secret door, B.

Claude. (Gazing at her.) Esmeraldal Behold thy
-or.
•v. My destroyer! (Shuddering.)

Claude. Say, rather, thy preserver. One word —
one little word— uttered by thy lips, these gloomy
walls shall fly, as by a talisman, asunder, and
thou be free. Happy Esmeralda— mine.

Esnier. Leave me, unholy tempter ; leave mo to
the doom by thee inflicted.

Claude. By me inflicted! Desperate is the

:vo of despairing love. I am hero to avert

uffering, beautiful Esmeralda. Look on me.

Esmeralda. r hand.)

Eswer. (Shuddering and recoiling.) Oh, unhand
me ! As I lay here in my dreary dungeon, alone,
there came, gliding in the dark, across the chilling
pavement, a viperous creature, that sought to nestle
itself in my dishevelled hair. I seized it, shudder-
ing with disgust, as its clammy folds encircled my
fingers, and dashed it there; yet, even that loath.
some creature, horrible as it was, polluted monk, it
were less revolting for me to call back again, and
foster it like a dove, in this despairing bosom, than
to endure the pressure of thy hand for a single
moment.

Cliwlt '. Tin •!•<• is anguish for thee — there is death
for thee ; I will transform them to joy and life.

• r. No, no. Worse than anguish, worst.- than
drat h, it wore, to live for thee.

Clci" :ieralda !— ere I saw

tin-.-, F was virtuous, pious, happy.

Esmer. (Wringing her hands.) And I — miserable

Claude. Girl, interrupt me not. Ye?, I was
happy, innocent, till one day — one fatal <l:iy ! — listen
tome, Esmeralda, (she rises)— I was sit tintr, buried
in meditation, at the grating of my cell -I heard
the sound of a tambourine. I cast my eyes li -low —
unfortunate transgression ! There, in the brilliant

sunshine— less radiant than herself— I beheld a

•i! dancing; a creature BO beautiful, so ex-

qni-ite, that tin; sky mi^'lit have; chosen her for its

inmate. K inn-alda, it was thee!

Surprised, charmed, intoxicated, I felt, from that

moment, the hand of fatn was on me.

Earner. Fly, for ever, the wn-tdied cause of thy

Claude. Impossible! Sorceress, I have struggled
but too long and vainly; my braiu is turned ; all
that should have waked of virtue in my soul, tho
memory of thoo had speedily lulled to sleep. Likn
men perishing in snow, I took pleasure in yielding
to this slumber. 1 knew no ecstasy but to pro-
nounce thy name. I have prayed that I mi^ht
forget theo, but in vain. I have wept that I could
not cease iff remember thee. I have followed theo
under every form — under every excitement — love,
indignation, jealousy, despair; revenge may be tho
next, for ardent as is my love, so terrible would be
my hate. Save thyself from that; save me — pity
me. Mercy, or I am lost eternally 1 (Kneeling.)
Pity! Pity!

Earner. Pity! alas! yon who know so well what
love is, yet could murder all that I loved ; for, oh,
I still believe it was thy voice, thine, which I heard
in the gipsy's chamber, when my poor Phoebus —
God ! why do I recollect what a noble creature he
was ? So brave — so generous ! ah, how tenderly did
he love me ! how ardently did I worship him ! The
hours that I have watched for him ! a smile of his—
the sunny glitter of liis armour — the joyous waving
of his plume!— and all this hath ceased,— ho is
gone; — earth no longer holds him; and you, you
would speak to me of, what ? love ! love, which, liko
the last star fading before the tempest, expired in
this desolate heart with him. (Wildly.) Phoebus I
Give him to me ! Where, where is he 'if

Claude. (Morosely.) Dead!

Esmer. Kill me also. It were a deed to redeem
thy soul : it would seem a crime, but be a mercy.

Claude. I would enable thee to escape ; I will
forsake my vows. Together, we will seek that
land where most joy is to be found. I will be all
to thoe.

Esmcr. Phoebus!

Claude. Utter not that name ; but save thyself.
Tho scaffold awaits thee — the executioner hath
whetted his axe— the footstep of the guard, coming
to conduct thee to my doom, is on the stairs-
listen I What will sustain thee ?

Esmer. (Firmly.) Innocence!

Claude. Fearest thou not the grave ?

Esmer. No ; Phoebus is there : we shall meet.

Claude. Is it easier to die for him, than to live
for me ?

Earner. Leave me, cruel and perjured monk.
Yet, one thing I would thank thoe for : it is, that
thou hast taught me to despise a life which thy
subtlety compels me to relinquish. No more-
no more. I am prepared. NWJiii;g can render mo
thine — nothing — never !

Claude. Inflexible Bohemian ! Thou destroyest
thyself : behold the guard.

Enter GUARDS, L.
r. Oh, welcome, death !
Claude. Esmeralda! but one word.
. Phoebus!

[Jfusic. She is guarded off, L. ; Tie
rushes out at wcret door, K.

12

ESMERALDA.

BCENE III.— Exterior of Notre Dame. An ancient
window of heavy stonework and, painted glass.
Above, a scaffold, which stands C.

QUASIMODO enters hastily, and surveys the
scaffold.

Quas. Must I ring the knell which tolls in

mockery of her miseries ? I No— I cannot.

Accursed scaffold ! How comes it that avenging
lightnings descend not from offended heaven to
gink and bury thee in earth's dark centre ? Why,
why did I take that oath ? That oath to assist
the monk in this infernal enterprise, and she the
victim? What is gratitude for a worthless life,
like mine, that it should kindle up a pile on which
to sacrifice the innocent ? Esmeralda! that dear
Esmeralda, for whom I would immolate this mis-
shapen body, as though it were but a grain of dust
unworthy of being trambled on by her feet, this
monk would bring to the edge of the axe; he
would then say to her, " Young Bohemian,
Phoebus, whom thou lovest, lives no longer ; he
who loves thee as tenderly, awaits to rescue thee
from an ignominious fate — wilt thou be mine?"
Should she say, Aye— here at the foot of the
scaffold — aye, even to him, it will be no more than
natural; she is but a woman— a trembling,
forlorn woman — and death is terrible even to the
strong of heart. Should she say no, what then ?
Must she perish ? It shall not be. Quasimodo
the hunchback, hath an arm of iron : Esmeralda,
it should snatch thee from the scaffold, were
the blood-thirsty axe raised, and thou on thy knees
at the block! [Music. Rushes out, L.

Enter GUDULE andMAHIETTE, B., who attempts
to draw away the former.

Gudu. (Struggling.) I must — I will behold her.
I heard them say it, through my grated cell, I
heard it — "The Bohemian girl is to die." Lo !
ye, in yon dismal and dreary vault, how long and
•vainly have I wept, and prayed of heaven to restore
my child — ray child stolen from me by those
accursed Egyptians ? And now, that a daughter
of their cruel tribe is about to perish, thou wouldst
drag me— me, from the scene. No— no ; let me
stay to witness whether her mother — hers — will
not come hither to weep, and tear her dishevelled
hair, as I tear mine. Should it be so, Mahiette, I
shall laugh, and cry aloud, "Look! look! look!
at the gipsy mother— how bitterly she laments for
her own ! See, the tribe of Bohemians mourning
all around her. Wretches! little cared they for
a mother's anguish when they stole from me my
only one — my only one. Curse them !"

Mahiet. But this poor girl— so handsome, BO
friendless

Gudu. Friendless ! Is she more friendless than
I? Is she more handsome than was my child —
my little Agnes ? Hers was not mortal beauty.
Hethinks I gaze upon her now— there, where I left
her under the rose-tree, smiling like a cherub in
the sun-light: I quitted her but an instant; yet,
ere I returned, the gipsy sorceress had been there
—the ogress! I called in vain for my infant — I
heard the mockery of a loud laugh : I saw, as it
Were, the faces of demons glaring at me through
the foliage ; I looked into the clear fountain for
my lost treasure — the countenance of an insulting
fiend met mine. " She is gone— my child is gone !"
I cried, franticly, to rocks and woods — and even
Echo mocked my despair by responding, "She is
" (Weeps.) Gone!

Mahi. Poor unfortunate !

Gudu. Last night, when the chimes of Notre
Dame pealed forth the midnight hour, the shade
of my child came to the grating of my cell. " To-
morrow," she said, " at the scaffold where the
Bohemian girl is condemned to die, there will I be
'Mother'" She called me mother — ha, ha, ha,!
My heart danced at the music of her voice —feel
how it throbs now. They say music will tame
a lion; but "mother" hath a sweeter note than1
music. (Looking about.) Child, where art thou?
I am here, yet I perceive not thee— thy mother.

Mahiet. Hark! it is the gipsy, ill-fated Esmeralda.

Gttdu. (Surprised.) Esmeralda! Is it she?
Their beauty— their May Queen, as they called
her,— 'tis she, is it ? I've witnessed her antics— the
glitter of her garments. (Bitterly.) The young

sybil— she— I'll speak to her— I'll

(Going, i.)

Mahiet. (Detains Tier.JFor pity's sake, as thon art
a Christian woman.

Music:— Enter. MEN-AT-ARMS, ARCHERS,

MONKS, NUNS, <tc. conducting in ESME-

RA.LDA, a taper in her hand, a rope about her

waist, from, L. u. E. The EXECUTIONER

ascends the scaffold ; a concourse of People and

Gipsies follow in the procession.

Herald. (Advancing and reading) *' Bohemian
girl, calling yourself Esmeralda, whereas you
are accused, on the evidence of the good monk,
Claude, of Notre Dame, of being accessory to the
death of Captain Phoebus de Chateanpers, and of
obstinately refusing to reveal the names of your
confederates, it is the will of his Most Sacred
Majesty King Louis of France, that you do pay
the forfeit of your crime with your life, on this
public scaffold ; and yon are now asked, for the
last time, will you, or will you not, full confession
make?"

Esmer. (Calmly.) I am innocent.

Herald. (Taking tTie taper.) Enough— my duty is
performed. Take leave of your friends. (He
retires.)

Gipsy Women. (Kissing her hands.) Esmeralda!
Esmeralda !

Esmer. Dear, dear friends.

Gudu. (Gazing at her.) I would speak to her ; I
would mock her; but I am choked. I have no
utterance for scorn. The anger o f mine eye w
quenched in tears. I weep for the Bohemian's
daughter. I, — poor pale thing — poor thing !
(Gazing intently.)

Esmer. You, who know me best, know me in-
capable of this crime ; but even you little imagine
now tenderly I loved him for whom I suffer. For
his sake, death comes to me shorn of its terrors.
'Tis true I am young— there might have been for
me, still a few years of happiness — yet — no, — not
without him.

Gudu. (Aside, B.) I came to curse— did I not ?

Esmer. To you, Gertrude, I bequeath this ring.
It is of small worth ; but you, I feel, will remember
bhat it was Esmeralda's. To you, Phiona, my
tambourine. Its sound will sometimes* remind you
rf how happy we have often been together, dancing.
Bless yon ! — bless you! (Embrace.)

Gudu. Lead me — lead me hence, — I will go pray
'or her — pray.

Esmer. One favour I would ask. You are aware,
all of you, that I am not a Bohemian ; but that 1
was stolen from my mother——

KSMEUALDA.

Gudu. Stolon from her mother I

Ksmer. She, whom I recognised as a mother, in
her dying moment, gave me this littlo embroidered
glove.

d'udu. (Aside.) An embroidered glove !

Earner. It waa on my hand, when sho received
me, an infant to her bosom. It was her belief, that
it would, one day, enable mo to liud my real mother.
Plaoo it with mo in my irravo — thoro only, I and my
mother can now meet.

Gudu. (Bushing forward.) That glove,— speak,
unhappy one, doth it resemble thisP — nay, do not
recoil from me. This glove— (feeling in her bosom)
— it hath rested here—here, next my poor desolate
heart, for fifteen long years, — it was all the cruol
gipsies left me of my child. It is wrought in gold. I
wrought it to deck the hand of my pretty one. It
was vanity ; but her hands were so small, so exqui-
site, so beautiful. Hero it is. (Pulling a glove from
her bosom.) Let \is compare thorn.

Earner. Heavens ! they are alike.

Mahiet. Exactly.

Gudu. Yes, exactly the same. I know — I — those
features! Child, thine age— thino age ?

Esmer. Nineteen to-morrow.

Gudu. Aye, since the day I lost thee. I remember
— I — (parting her hair and examining her nearly.)
Yes! yes! yes I I have found her again, .My
Agnes ! — my daughter !

Esmer. (JwMng into her arms.) Mother.

Gudu. It is the same word,— the same voice that
I heard last night. Thanks — thanks ! I have found
my daughter ! Ha, ha. ha I (Kissing Esmeralda
injoyful tenderness.)

CLAUDE appears near the sciffold, wearing the habit

of the Confessor.

Claude. 'Tin fortunate— her mother — she will no
longer despise life : one more bold step — she's mine.
(He makes a sign to a man.<it-ar ins, who warns
Esmeralda to ascend the scaffold.)

Gudu. What would he? Heed not him. How
happy we shall be !

Burner. Happy ! Alas, mother, I am condemned
to die.

Gudu. Die— no— thou art innocent.
Esmer. Yes, mother, yes.

Gudu. Let us be gone. In Languedoc, I have a
fair name — kindred — affluence.
Esmer. Unhappy Esmeralda !
Claude (Aside.) She relents — the hour of triumph
comes. (Guard touches her.)

Esmer. Since it must be — mother — farewell !
Gudu. (Clinging to he}'.) No, no— did I find thee
for this ? They cannot, will not part ns again — it
is impossible. Men, fathers— on our knoes — the
mother — the daughter — imploring mercy ! (She
force* Esmeralda to kneel, and lifts up her hands in
Itcr own) Mercy! my child, they shall not have
thoo again— no — I'll cling around thee in icy death
— thy mother ! I'll never quit thee more — no, no,
no— never 1

(She clings, screaming, to Esmeralda,
who, as they force her towards scaffold,
dragging GhM*l« half ac f»** tli>- stmjc,
who then fiilli s»ins«'l'iss. Exmt'rnhLi,
by a sudden, effort, releases lierself,
r'nns, lifts up the head of her mother,
flii.l fedix her.)

Esmer. Ono kiss — it is the last. (Gating at
Gudule.) So pale— so still! If she bo sleepinp,
do not disturb her — if she bi> dc:id, seek not to call
her back : there is nothing for her here — not even

her daughter — nothing but misery — despair I
(Placing her on ground.) My poor mother!
Mother — it is a sweet word I Wake not, mother —
stir not, mother. Wait where thou art : in heaven,
thy child will come to thoo. (Starting -up.) Yes,
mother— to Phoebus and to thee. Headsman, I am
ready.

(.Approaching scaffold.)

Claude. (Speaking in a low voice.) Ksiuoralda, 'tis
not too late — live but for me.

Earner. (Shudders, and glides past him.) Phoebus
calls met Mother, wo shall meet.

(.Ascending scaffold.)
Claude. Wilt thon die ?
L'smtr. Ho is de;id.

Claude. I'll not survive thee ! This dagger

Esmeralda, one word !

(.Aiming a secret dagger at his own

breast.)
Earner. Mother — Phoobns— I come !

(She throws herself on the block ; the OJCB
is raised ; a general feeling of horror
is displayed : at that moment the win-
dow is burst asunder, and the out-
stretched hand of Quasimodo seizes the
axe ; he pushes aside the Executioner,
and raising the fainting Esmeralda, he
bears her towards the window.)
Quas. (Holding the axe.) Forbear this hellish
rite ! She is innocent, and shall not die. Men-at-
arms, move one step towards me — the strength of
worlds is in this determined hand — this uplifted
axe shall strike him dead that follows Esmeralda
to the shrine. Comfort, Esmeralda! To the
sanctuary— to the sanctuary! 'Tis the refuge of
the guilty — shall bo of the innocent. The sanc-
tuary!

(He bears her away. The windows close

— Cry of People " Qua.wnodo."
Claude. (On the scaffold, repelling the Soldiers.)
Beware ! She is rescued. Profane not the sanc-
tuary.

(Music. — A picture is formed — fha
people shouting " Quasimodo." The
Soldiers advancing to the window,
repelled by the Monk. Gudule sup.
ported by ifahiette and other women, B.

END OF ACT II.

ACT III.
SCENE I.— The Santuary.

QUASIMODO discovered with ESMERALDA,
insensible, in his arms.

Quas. I have succeeded— she is in the sanctuary.
They will not dare to follow. (looking at
Esmeralda.) She breathes — her heart throbs and
palpitates against mine— against mine— Oh, that
these consecrated walls might shut out the world
from us, for ever! Us!— she so beautiful, I so
hideous ! Ah, those eyes re-open ! Esmeralda !

Esmer. Take away that axe. Mother ! Phcebns f
Where am I ?

Quas. In safety.

i'smer. In the grave ? With death ? And thon—
(Shuddirina.)

Quas. Bohemian — appalling as I seem — I am he
that hath snatched thee from death, even while his
cold arm encircled thee.

Earner. It was kind — yet that blow adminis-
tered

14

ESMERALDA.

Quos. Maiden, thou liast much to live for.

Esmer. A mother — duty.

Quas. Love!

Esmer. 'Tis a passion that lies frozen in my
lieart— its tomb is here.

(Pressing her bosom.)

Quas. Unlock that tomb, then, and bid thy love
spring np, and be the golden crocus, bursting into
sunlight, even through the snows of sorrow. He
that loves thee lives !

Esmer. My Phoebus ?

Quos. Aye— thy Phoebus.

Esmer. Do not mock my sufferings.

Quos. If thou couldst look into my heart, I

(Checking himself.) Behold this silver cup ! I found
it in the cell of Father Claude.

Esmer. (With a burst of joy.) 'Tis Phoebus'
writing ! Where is he ? Doth he know what, for
him, I have endured ?

Qitos. He shall know all. He is a captive, as this
cup declares; but at 'midnight, I, Quasimodo, will
steal forth, and send those to aid him that shall
bring him to thee to attest thine innocence ; he —
happy, happy Phoebus !

Esmer. And thou, also, in the contemplation of
that happiness which

Quos. (Troubled.) Come with me into the church.
Though this sanctuary enshrine thee from others,
it will not so from the monk — methinks I hear his
footstep. I remember, near the altar, is a curious
tomb, which opens by a hidden spring— there I'll
conceal thee.

Esmer. Horror ! with the dead ?

Oiios. The dead will accord thee life — the living
kill thee.

Esmer. Shouldst thou fail to return, in that
awful solitude, perhaps, to perish.

Quos. Doubt not me ; my mission is not of earth
— a pure, and a bright spirit hovers o'er me, for
thy sweet sake. Thou, in safety, ere yon bat,
which screams the vesper hour, hath ceased her
moonlit circlets round these cloisters, thou,
Esmeralda, shalt be free — be blessed ; 'tis all I ask
to live for — all to die for ! Fear not Quasimodo.

Esmer. No — thou hast saved me.

[Exeunt, L.

SCENE II.— A Gloomy Chamber in the Ferry
House.

PHCEBUS discovered.

Phcebus. Agaii* the night descends, and I am
here a captive. What am I to understand ? My
.mind racks itself with vain conjectures. Could
Esmeralda have been sensible of the attempt to do
me wrong ? No — perish the thought ! The dark
figure which wielded the dagger — it was Claude,
the Monk of Notre Dame. How had I moved a
holy man to such resolved malice P Conjecture —
;all is vain.

(Sinks on a chair — noise.)

Grin. (Outside.) Captain! Captain Phoebus !

.Phoebus. My name ! Who calls ?

vGfrin. Hush ! Read that paper !

(A paper thrust through the door in flat.)

Phcebus. Paper! Ah! (Takes paper.) Here it is!
^Eeads.) " Be upon your guard. — If yon are not at
liberty, Esmoralda, who has been saved by Provi-
dence this night, will be torn from the sanctuary
of Notre Dame, and executed in the morning for your
murder." Great Powers! My poor Esmeralda!
(Reads.) " I am myseif so narrowly watched as not
to be able to quit this house. There is only one

hope left me ; while my wife, Coucou, sleeps, I'll
blow up the house. Stand from the door, and in
the confusion look to yourself. — Gringoire."

Phoebus. Blow up the house ! Look to myself in
the confusion! What the deuce does he mean?
Gringoire! Gringoire! (Calling at door.) Are you
mad ? You forget I'm a prisoner, and can't escape.
Gringoire !

(An explosion is heard. The door in flat
is blown down. Enter GRINGOIRE,
through sparks of fire ; his face black,
his night-cap on; a sword in his
hand— running about and affecting
terror.)

Grin. Help! help! Fireworks — crackers — ex-
plosions ! (Aside.) Don't be alarmed— it was only a
very little barrel — no other way of forcing open
that door. If people will keep combustibles in
their houses, combustibles it must be expected will
explode. Murder ! I only hope the damage may have
reached Madame— see how she'll relish being blown
up herself. Mur

Clopin and others. (Outside.) The varlet!
Strangle him !

Grin. Oh, la ! they've smoked the plot. Nothing
kills the devil's pets — here they come. (Bawling.)
Murder ! Fire ! Poor Madame Gringoire ! Should
she be harmed or killed — (.Aside.) No such
luck! (To Phcebus.) This villain of a prisoner—
Don't think to pass — no, no. (Aside.) Here's a
sword — run the first man through the body that
opposes your way. The door is open — now follow
me, or — (Recoiling.) Oh, la! Madame is alive!
(Collaring Phcebus.) You pass not— you pass not.

Enter COUCOU, CLOPIN, and GIPSIES, their
faces black with the explosion, D. in p.

Couc. (To Gringoire.) Hound !

Grin. Ah, then I am truly happy ! My dear wife
survives. (Aside.) Cruel Beelzebub ! not to seize
her in his own element — I'm sure he might have
mistaken the whole group for part of his own
family.

Clopin. (T/ireatening Tiim.) Yon are the author of
this mischief, dog.

Grin. Dog! pretty compliments ! You say truly,
a watchful dog I am ; 'Twas I blew out the blow-
ing up, or you had, ere now, all been spared the
expense of warming-pans. Why do you keep
such combustibles in the house P A courageous dog
I am, or where had your prisoner been ?

Cfopin. (Picking up the paper which Phc&bus has
dropped.) This is the certificate of your fidelity.

Grin. Oh, murder ! My head is in that piece of
paper I

(Gets behind Phcebus.)

Couc. Seize the wretch !

Clopin. Hang him !

All. Hang him !

Phoebus. Dare to touch him at peril of your
lives. The attempt, on his part, was generously
made to rescue me from your clutches ; and the
first man that, in my presence, has the temerity to
place a finger upon him, in the way of violence,
shall pay the trespass with his life's blood.

(Presenting sword.)

Clopin. Captain, you are a bold man.

Phoebus. So bold, that I will no longer here re-
main a prisoner ; and I question you, by what right
you dare to restrain me— me, a captain hi the king's
service F

Clopin. Be satisfied; we seek not your life.

I

ESMEEALDA.

15

Claude, the rich monk of Notre Dame, gives a
thousand crowns for your captivity till E.suie-
ralda shall have consented to become his.
Phcebus. II is ! Heard I not of an execution ?

That paper

Clopm. Execution !— a mere piece of mummery,
got up to frighten the girl, which he. ean stop,
though the axe be raised— so hath he sworn to us ;
or, if he do not, she is none of our tribe.

Ptiabut. And nerds limy perish for your aceur^'il
interests. Devils! for I will not think BO meanly
of humanity as believe it could give utterance to
Avoids of such cold depravity.

Clopin. Have a cure; you are in the gipsies'
haunt.

Plicebus. Were it in the haunt of fiends, my in-
dignation could not check itself ! Back I and let
me pass, or look to your life.
Clopm, JSeizo upou them both.

(Seizing hun.)
Phcebus. Ruffian! off!

(Dashing him off.)
All. Down with him— our father bleeds !

(Tlu-y disarm nnd surround him, draw-
ing fvrtli knives. Gringoire rushes out
at D. iu-F.)

Phajbiw. I see I am devoted. Strike, assassins—
I can fall like a soldier.

(Throwing himself on his knee in the

centre.)

AIL (About to strilcc.) Revenge our father's
blood!

CrasJi.— Enter GRINGOIRE hastily, door in flat.

Grin. I have opened the door — they are here.

All. Who?

Grin. The king's archers.

Enter ERNEST and ARCHERS, door an flat.

Phcebus. (Sinking into Ernest's arms.) My friend,
yon are just in time.

Cloptn. Who has bstrayed us ?

Ernest. This cup— Quasimodo— You are our
prisoners all. Away — away!

Phcebus. Esmcralda

Ernest. Is alive. We will seek her.

P/webus. Where?

Ernest. In the sanctuary of Notre Dame.

[Exeunt, door in flat.

Grin. Madame Gringoire, I divorce myself from

S>n — by this sacred pitcher I do it. (To Cloptn.)
ighty king of rats ! and yon, august princes of
the same trap, I most respectfully beg of you to —
March 1 Hem !

[Strutting out, shouldering the sword;
they follow, guarded, door in flat.

SCENE III.— The Interior of Notre Dame by Moon-
light. At the extremity of the aisle, a pair <>f
folding doors, <md a lofty stone gallery, with a de-
scent on the left into another gallery, which con-
ducts to the centre of the church. Near the front
of the stage, u., is an a?icient tomb, in brass work,
supporting the flgure of a kneeling woman.

(M usic. —QUASIMODO appears in the moonlight,
catitimi,~.\ ii nui'i'ijhiij from behind a pillar; he has
on his arm a laxkct ; he approaches tlic brass tomb,
and after looking cautiously around, speaks.)

Quas. (In a low voice.) Bohemian ! Esmeralda !

(The door of the tomb slowly opens, and 1
RALDA appears.)

Enncr. Quasimodo— generous preserver! I

(hesitating) I would speak of

Quas. Phoebus ?

••t. Oh, yes, yes. Assure mo that ho live?,
and

Quas. That I cannot. The cup— I have taken it
to Captain Ernest ; he, with his archers, is gone to

the Ferry House— there is hope.

But thou— thou
famishcst : hero is food for Une. Eat— eat.

(Giving her the bosfcet.)

JJsnter. Hark ! heard I not a footstep ?

Quas. If so, 'tis one of danger — the monk
perhaps, who mad, distracted, calls on thy name,
and seeks thce everywhere. Conceal thyself, but
be careful thon close not quite those brazen doors
— the spriug which secures them is a secret our,
known as I think, to me alone— once fastened, it
can only bo undone by a baud on the outside. Ah,
that glare of light. In — in — it is thine enemy.

(Music. She goes hastily into the tomb, which he
closes softly, and glides behind a pillar. CLAUDE
appearsin the distance, pale and haggard, a torch
in his hand; as he advances, Quasimodo steals
across the aisle, and appears to enter from an
opposite side.)

Claude. Quasimodo— Quasimodo !

Quas. (Gloomily approaching.) I am here — what
would you ?

Claude. The sanctuary is deserted— where in
Esmeralda ?

Quas. In safety.

Claude. Dog ! why hast thou avoided me till this
late hour ? Tell me, where hast thou hidden the
young Bohemian ?

Quas. Where heaven knows to find her. Consider,
a king's warrant might yet drag her to a midnight
scaffold.

Claude. Fool ! what knowest thou of such mat-
ters ? they cannot harm her. Let me whisper in
thine ear — Phcebus lives.

Quas. For Esmeralda ?

Claude. (Wildly.) No, no, no — I cannot support
the thought. I have vowed to wed Esmeralda. In
death united — mine — mine! This dagger is for
her— for me 1 Clasped in these expiring arms, I
will leap with her into the grave — he will not tear
her from me there. Ha, ha, ha ! (Wildly.)

Quas. Distracted monk ! Fly and save thyself !
lest the infuriated throne, convinced, of thine
iniquity, do tear thee presently asunder, and dye
this marble pavement with thy blood.

Claude. Esmeralda ! whom unto the soul's per-
dition I do love.

Quo*. Love! thou mistaken one. I'll tell thee
what love is — I, that am unread in books, as thpn
art, save Nature's book, will tell thee what love is .
It is npon the altar of the heart to fix the image
most beloved, and worship it with untold thought?,
like holy prayers — to yield it attributes, as to a
saint, with joyfulness, e'en though those attributes
destroy ourselves. In true love there can be no
base desires, such as thine — no jealousy, no re-
venge; such passions are for demons— love dis-
claims them.

Claude. Cold-hearted idiot! what is this thon
speakest ? Thou that ne'er didst feel, but as these
chill cloisters, which reject the sunshine, yet ring
in mockery of heaven. No, I will not from my
purpose be delayed. Esmeralda his!— never! I

16

ESMEEALDA.

know she's not far off. Every tomb I'll search—
nor coffin, nor winding sheet shall 'scape me.

Quas. (Abruptly snatching the torch.) In darkness
be it then ; while I yon sullen doors to the multi-
tude throw open.

Claude. Those doors— heavily locked they are—
the key is gone. None enter here till she and I lie
dead.

Quas. Tiger! Since, for thee, even the shrine
hath no sanctity 'ueath which to shield the inno-
cent ; with this torch, naming like a beacon to all
Paris, from yonder gallery will I denounce thee—
hypoci'ite! murderer!

(vlpproaching the stairs, L. rr. E.)

Claude. (Detaining him, and recovering the torch.)
Stay, imp, that flashest like an unnatural meteor
before me — thus I extinguish thy soul.

(Stabs him.)

Ouas. I owed thee life— thou hast paid thyself.
(Falls.— Tumult outside.)

Claude. Ah, that tumult. Here, with his blood
upon my hands, I must not be detected.

(Ascends stairs, bearing with him the torch.)

Quas. I die— but still she will be saved. 'Tis
he, the happy Phoebus, comes. 0— h I

Enter ESMERALDA, from tomb, E.

Esmer. That shout! Phoebus! Ah, Quasimodo
slain!

Claude. (Pausing on first gallery.) 'Tis Esme-
ralda ! Hence — I'll bear her with me !

Quas. No, wretch ! You descend not this way.
With my last convulsion I oppose thee. I— fly,

Esmeralda, lest in this struggle he

(Esmeralda enters tomb, which closes
with a crash. Qaasimodo ascends
stairs, L.)

Claude. Fool ! dying he bays my path. Ah ! to
yonder gallery ! — by that winding staircase to avoid
him — to secure her.

(Re hurries up second gallery.)
Quas. (On first gallery at the same time that the
Monk is on the second.) Stay, accursed monk ! too
well I read thy purpose ; but you quit not yonder
gallery alive. No, never! Thus I save Esme-
ralda.

(He pursues the Monk up second gallery,
and dashes him over the balustrade;
then, tafcing the torch from the side,
looks after him a moment. A. loud
murmur is heard without.)

Quas. (Looking after Claude.) All is over — he is
no more. Dashed to death, he lies outstretched on
the chilled pavement of these dim cloisters, to dis-
turb the gloom, whereof the midnight echoes of
his solitary step were once the only music. How
often have I, even I, in my dark loneliness, caught
the welcome sound, and blessed myself that it was
human ? Ugh ! what a stream of blood is there !
Those still expanding eyes, kindling in the red
gleam of this o'erhangiug torch, looking up re
proachfully at me ! Those lips, scarce cold, seem
quivering in my appalled ear. Quasimodo — mur-
derer ! (.Recoiling in horror.) No — (listening) —
all is quiet — silent as the grave. A corse is but a
corse — powerless — speechless. And I — life ebbs
swiftly from my breast. I faint. Esmeralda
Ah! she hoars me not! Great God! She

is shut up in the tomb — the secret spring
of which is only known to me. I sink
— she will be suffocated — perish of famine*.
(Noise.) They come too late— they will never find
her. Es I die.

(Staggering down, he falls at the foot of the stairs.)
Enter PHCEBUS, ERNEST, GUDULE

GIPSIES, ARCHERS, and CITIZENS, with

torches.

Gudu. My child— my daughter! thy mother
calls thee — where art thou ? Innocent one, he is
alive.

Phcebus. Esmeralda! Esmeralda! Hark!

(A scream is heard from the tomb— the
people, who are all searching about,
pause on the instant.)

Gudu. It was her voice— a mother cannot forget
it. Here it sounded.

Phcebus. Yes, here in this tomb— all silent.
Esmeralda! No reply. Heard I not a feeble
moan ? She is perishing ! Horror ! The sepulchre
is of brass— it cannot be riven asunder. Who—
will rescue from a living grave the ill-starred
Esmeralda ?

Quas. (Feebly.) Quasimodo.

People. Quasimodo!

(They support him forward.)

Phoebus. Esmeralda!

Qwas. In that tomb — the secret spring.

Phcebus. The secret spring?— oh, speak, or
Esmeralda

Quas. (Eecorering and losing his recollection.)
Ah ! yes, poor Esmeralda, there — dying. The

spring Listen how the bells chime — the bells

of Notre Dame— sweet, sweet.

Phcebus. Quasimodo, look at me — speak to me —
save Esmeralda.

Grudu. 'Tis her distracted mother imploring. Oh !
Qnasimodo, while thus in agony I press thy hand,
cold as a statue

Quas. You are right — yes. Press the hand of the
statue. Those bells again. (Absorbed.)

Phcebus. The hand of the statue !

(He presses the hand of the statue, the
doors of the tomb spring open, and
Esmeralda is lifted out insensible.)

Gudu. My child!

Phcebus. Dear Esmeralda I Ah ! she lives— she
knows me.

Esmer. Phoebus— mother I (Embrace.]

Quas. It is her voice ; but I no longer behold
her.

Esmer. Qnasimodo, thon bleedest.

Quas. 'Tis for thee, Esmeralda— let me but once
clasp thy hand, 'tis all I ask. (Phcebus places th«
hand of Esmeralda in that of Quasimodo, who fcisse;
it.) It is enough that I am spared for this. BI
happy, Esmeralda. One prayer — one tear of thin<
will suffice for the poor Hunchback of Notre Dame
(Falls.) Those bells again— they summon me-
sweet, sweet bells. Esme— ral (Dies.

(.4 picture is formed by the variou
characters as the organ of the church
mingling with the chimes of the belli
peals forth the midnight mass.)

CCRTAUT.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

ICKS' BRITISH DRAMA.

ILLUSTRATED.
Comprising th. • ' ,f | :.loKt celebrated dramatist*.

of the World— Love in a Vilh
The Inconetant— Tl , - The X

• Pg ; , • . I , , : . ,

uiteut— The I'rov
ie School lur Scandal— I h

ule.

1 the I

or, the

ud Sit,':
Paris— P.raganza — 'I

ori'
-Ail th

• Wheel o

iges — Speed the Plough — No So1.:

aider the Great— The Padlock—

Maid of the Mill—The Dog
'

ns— Th

i of Nature-The Lying \ i and (

r Warwick — The Panel — Tom Thumb — The
Under the Earth— Polly Honeycomb — The

irl-A Hold

--em — The Farm House- Gustavus Vasa -The First Floor— n«.

-

o— All'foi
-The t ollies uf a Day-The Liar— The lirothere— Lodoiska — The Heiress-Thi-

ioke for a Husband— >
L'he Virgin Ui;:
i-ove a-la-Mode— Ju ; •

•
I— The Tailor— The Wooilman— TV o Your Bow—

1 'rjibau of China— Tl
nuko— The JBomp— The Fas!
met, the Impostor— The Chapter

Carmelite— Duplicity— Three Weeks After ;>!
The Cheats of Scapin— Abroad and at Home— A i, ,: SSi

i ;H! I —Know Your Own Mind— The Apprentice— '1 : , _ 'n"Vl

^ Love~The ClumceB-aiiller of MuusHeld-The Tondor Hul-"

nsieurTonson
i in th<
. iw of Lc
Je\v— The Heoi-

i 'ark Glen of
iiiiiiminlSiTr TUft In' 1

; Man— Th

t: The Way of the World —The Benevolent Tar— The School for Wires— Sh* \v IA
onl.l Not-The Contrivances- Who is She ?— Whichis the Man ?-School for A£
.. .e Mogul Tale-Suspicions !l ! ,-ro and Leoiuler — The ' f, vA'n°-

• The (>ak«-By K, ,3 , , Oouple-ILe Careless HusK-^hr^

•u'os— Votary of Wealth— Lovers Quarrels.

' -irottoon the Stream — Ways and Means— The Juggler— Richard C<sur da T Inn

•leman-Comus-The Heir-at-Law-The Polish Jew-T; ' ' '

a Man— Better Late i ' , -.;,,»<

ief. Wife-Midnight Hour- Wives as they Were, and Maids Sf^KiSSSSffSSK

Strand.

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F9E7
1883

Fitzball, Edward

Esmeralda
Original complete ed

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