r, and rent his tinsel
cope.

Quasimodo remained on his knees, with head bent and hands clasped.
Then there was established between them a strange dialogue of signs
and gestures, for neither of them spoke. The priest, erect on his
feet, irritated, threatening, imperious; Quasimodo, prostrate, humble,
suppliant. And, nevertheless, it is certain that Quasimodo could have
crushed the priest with his thumb.

At length the archdeacon, giving Quasimodo's powerful shoulder a rough
shake, made him a sign to rise and follow him.

Quasimodo rose.

Then the Brotherhood of Fools, their first stupor having passed off,
wished to defend their pope, so abruptly dethroned. The Egyptians, the
men of slang, and all the fraternity of law clerks, gathered howling
round the priest.

Quasimodo placed himself in front of the priest, set in play the muscles
of his athletic fists, and glared upon the assailants with the snarl of
an angry tiger.

The priest resumed his sombre gravity, made a sign to Quasimodo, and
retired in silence.

Quasimodo walked in front of him, scattering the crowd as he passed.

When they had traversed the populace and the Place, the cloud of curious
and idle were minded to follow them. Quasimodo then constituted himself
the rearguard, and followed the archdeacon, walking backwards, squat,
surly, monstrous, bristling, gathering up his limbs, licking his boar's
tusks, growling like a wild beast, and imparting to the crowd immense
vibrations, with a look or a gesture.

Both were allowed to plunge into a dark and narrow street, where no
one dared to venture after them; so thoroughly did the mere chimera of
Quasimodo gnashing his teeth bar the entrance.

"Here's a marvellous thing," said Gringoire; "but where the deuce shall
I find some supper?"

CHAPTER IV. THE INCONVENIENCES OF FOLLOWING A PRETTY WOMAN THROUGH THE
STREETS IN THE EVENING.

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,