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Fantastic corbel-heads and other sculptured details disappear every year from the Gothic houses, and find their way into private museums. As I was taking leave of the bellringer's boy a lad of about fifteen he put his hand under his blouse and, pulling out a snuff-box, offered me a pinch.
An idea occurred to him; he ran in search of a fagot in his bellringer's den, placed on this fagot a great many bundles of laths, and many rolls of lead, munitions which he had not employed so far, and having arranged this pile in front of the hole to the two gutters, he set it on fire with his lantern. During this time, since the stones no longer fell, the outcasts ceased to gaze into the air.
The poor bellringer's eye filled with tears, but he let none fall. All at once he pulled her gently by the border of her sleeve. She turned round. He had assumed a tranquil air; he said to her, "Would you like to have me bring him to you?" She uttered a cry of joy. "Oh! go! hasten! run! quick! that captain! that captain! bring him to me! I will love you for it!" She clasped his knees.
At the most she occasionally caught a glimpse at the summit of the towers, of the bellringer's face turned sadly to her. But as soon as she perceived him, he disappeared. We must admit that she was not much grieved by this voluntary absence on the part of the poor hunchback. At the bottom of her heart she was grateful to him for it. Moreover, Quasimodo did not deceive himself on this point.
A bellringer carrying off a wench, like a vicomte! a lout poaching on the game of gentlemen! that is a rare piece of assurance. However, he paid dearly for it. Master Pierrat Torterue is the harshest groom that ever curried a knave; and I can tell you, if it will be agreeable to you, that your bellringer's hide got a thorough dressing at his hands."
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